The Present
by mysweetone
Summary: Post S4/CS/Canon A chance sighting of a strikingly familiar tiny girl in Downton village brings echoes of the past. Anthony Strallan realizes the consequences of his actions: Edith's broken life-her daughter in the care of another. Determined to reunite them, he reaches out to Edith and finds her fiercely independent, wounded, reeling. The pieces come together in the present...
1. Chapter 1

He'd taken to avoiding the village altogether. On the few obligatory occasions when he did appear, Anthony Strallan wore his hat and long coat and kept his head lowered—shame, avoidance, fear, a sort of backwards respect for the Crawleys given his deplorable actions…_Edith_…

As he stood patiently just outside of Dr. Clarkson's office awaiting his valet's work in tidying the bill, Anthony became captivated by the child clinging to her father's knee as he chatted to a fellow farmer. Once she wriggled outside of the man's reach, a small hand attached to the man's large thumb, Anthony watched as the petite girl bent for the grasshopper, trying in vain to control her yet-to-be-mastered-coordination and newly gained walking ability, her eyes glowing with merriment and cherub lips open in wonder. Wind blew her shiny copper curls…

Anthony studied her in the morning sunlight. When the toddler giggled and looked up to her father in curious expectation, the man didn't notice, and so she spun back around, barely keeping her balance, her dark eyes seeing Anthony and she grinned, shy and curious and clever at once, curled into her father, and she continued smiling and watching Anthony from behind the safety of her father's trouser leg. Anthony, possessed by the moment and utterly enchanted, smiled back at her.

The father's friend made pointed eye contact and lifted his head in Anthony's direction, causing the man to turn and see Anthony. "Can I help you, Sir?" Drewe's voice interrupted the moment and Anthony started—glanced up to see the farmer now aware of him and glaring a bit suspiciously. Anthony immediately apologized given the impolite and quite intent stare at Drewe's daughter.

"She was delighted by the insect and…so sorry, again. Good day." Anthony tipped his hat and turned away, crimson-cheeked, warmed with self-loathing from the episode. Stewart arrived within the minute, witnessed Anthony's expression and the farmer still watching Anthony as the gentleman sought refuge in the back of the Rolls.

"Everything all right, Sir?"

"Yes, Stewart."

The silent drive on the road back to Locksley left Anthony's mind to wander. Bits of a friend's letters from London resonated, along with Stewart's observations and remarks from the village goings-on and rumors regarding the earl's family, and finally those familiar eyes, the smile from the little girl as she looked up at him…everything from the past months suspended sharply, crystallized together in those minutes…

"Oh my God."

"Something wrong, Sir?"

A long pause. "It was true…all true."


	2. Chapter 2

The drive was silent after the revelation. Anthony sat in shock as he filled in the pieces of the more than three years that had passed. Back at Locksley, Anthony threw open the car door before Stewart could get around, and walked straight to his library. He removed his hat and tossed it aside, knew Stewart remained close behind him, awaiting the opportunity to help with his coat. Anthony paid no attention to him, his concentration unerring. He clipped the binding and rifled through the neatly stacked letters from the past months, sought dates and lines, searching for every scrap of paper with frenetic urgency…every capital 'E' drawing his eyes for a second look…

_Major Strallan,_

_ I hope this finds you well… _

_ Lady Edith's opinions have created quite a stir recently…_

_Dear Anthony,_

_ Your visit this past month was entirely too short…I know Edith still has your heart, but if you would please attend the party—Ella wishes for you to meet…_

_Major Strallan,_

_ The recent government meetings… Economic improvements…_

_Sir Anthony,_

_ You're invited to attend and we hope we can count on your presence as the affair will benefit English…_

_My Dear Anthony,_

_ London calls again, my dear friend. Please don't forget Ella requires…_

_Dear Anthony,_

_ Ella and I regret we're unable to attend the wedding, though we do hope…_

"Where is it?"

"Where's what, Sir? Can I help—"

"I keep them all here in order and now—when I want to find something immediately—"

The letters fell out of his unsteady hand, straying across the desk and some feathering onto the floor. Anthony whispered a curse, a chill sweat evident as Stewart watched him panic before kneeling and gathering the papers. Anthony took them from his valet and set them on the desk, shuffling through again…and then the one he wanted fluttered from the disheveled heap, settling onto his desk as though a breath gently carried it there.

Anthony glanced at Stewart and then held it, his hand quivering, and the leaves of it shuddering between his fingers as he began…

_Dear Anthony,_

_ I have missed our lengthy conversations from your time in the city. How are you dear friend? Ella sends her best, as well as Rory—he's off to Cambridge again soon to resume his studies; you're his inspiration._

_ It is with a heavy heart I share the next bit of news with you. I fear you will have more questions than I can answer, or perhaps worse, more grief. You have endured your fair share and I hesitate to tell you anything more; however, I feel obligated to be honest with you given our long-standing and deep friendship. My nephew, Gareth, lately has taken work in the journalism field, much to my dear brother's consternation. The journalism circles contract more frequently than expand, a tight-knit and exclusive group to be certain, yet he has found his way into the elite crowd these past two years. As you know, Lady Edith Crawley writes for The Sketch; I know you read them, dear chap, there's no denying it to me because I know you too well. There are rumors—were rumors—the quietest hush of whispers regarding her—and her editor. Michael Gregson, said editor, is a married man in an unfortunate situation: his wife resides in a hospital suffering a form of insanity and cannot assent to a divorce. My friend, I assure you I would not write if I felt it impertinent or simply hearsay, as I would not give credence to such, nor would you; moreover, I desperately wish the gossip were not true for Lady Edith's sake. The fact is Ella and I saw them out together. Aware of the rumors about which Gareth informed us, I observed them as closely as I could given the social setting and, I'm disheartened to say, saw they behaved very much as a couple—courting or married—would behave. There was no doubt the type of relationship. Only because I know you will ask, I will say she looked happy. Gareth also, at different times, observed them together and told me he'd drawn the same conclusions, that certain friends kept their secret and they were "safe" in their innermost circle. We saw them nearly a month ago; today, Gareth informed me that Mr. Gregson has left the country and that Lady Edith is taking time to write from a different location and will submit her articles by post, if at all. The worst speculation, and Anthony I pray you're well given your respect and love for her as I know how much it will affect you when you read of this, regards her physical status and the apparent circumstances: she is rumored to be in the family way. Leaving the country seemed…_

Anthony had been unable to finish the rest of Bristol's letter at the time, so appalled and nauseated was he at the results of his own actions…what his decision led to for the woman he loved most in the world…

"Stewart?"

"Yes, Sir?"

Anthony sat down in his desk chair and beckoned the younger man closer, measured his next words before saying them aloud, aware of his valet's sense of honor and reluctance to contribute to any denigration or damage that might result in such a situation as this one. "I wondered if you might tell me again what you heard regarding Lady Edith's return to Downton?" When Stewart only stood silent for the longest minute, Anthony looked away from him, searching for an answer, a solution he could grasp that wouldn't be as horrible as the only one he knew it could be. "I know there had to have been talk and you only go to the village on occasion, not frequently at all, but… Stewart, the little girl this morning—is it possible? You haven't heard if Lady Edith married or, perhaps, lost her husband quite soon? No…why would he have Edith's…why?"

Stewart's slow reply came with care. "The _gossip _I heard, Sir, from a friend near the pub where some of the servants go every now and again only seemed to indicate that Lady Edith came back to Downton after being out of the country for some time… Rumors, of course, illness she'd acquired in London—some kind of rest treatment at a private hospital, perhaps. Another guessed some sort of schooling that required her to be on the continent—the worst that it was really a secret pregnancy… "

Quiet. Anthony closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, and bowed his head as the full weight sunk into him, constricted his chest so tightly that physical pain caused him to reach for his chest, to clutch at his heart.

"Sir?"

"She was forced…she had to have given her up…and now…" Anthony choked the words out and Stewart hurried to provide him with a handkerchief.

"Is there anything I can do, Sir? Your chest? Are you all right?"

Anthony gave no reply. Stewart touched and lifted his chin, held Anthony's jaw with both hands, saw the pale grimace, and began to remove his tie, unbuttoning the top of his dress shirt before yelling over his shoulder in a panic. "Sir, you've got to breathe. Sir! Mrs. Brandon! Call Dr. Clarkson immediately—hurry!"

* * *

Cora stood in the doorway of the smaller library watching her daughter type. The drapes were still drawn so as to require Edith to use the two lamps nearby for light. The frown on Edith's face, the constant look she wore in the past months, only intensified as she worked. Typing, leaning, penciling a change on the file next to her or sipping tea from the cup beside her…always with downturned lips and weary eyes with ever-darkening circles beneath. The clothes had changed in the recent years, more flattering and modern, but the sadness lingered.

Tentative and soft in her approach, Cora took the nearest chair and scooted it over to where Edith worked. Sitting near her daughter, she waited a moment for the typing to slow before she smiled and ventured to speak.

"How's the article coming along?"

"Quite well, I suppose, though not nearly finished." Edith continued to work without bothering to look up.

"You seem to work all the time, darling. Don't you want to rest or have some tea? At least join us where sunlight can reach you?"

"I'm fine, Mama, thank you."

"Have you received any further word regarding—"

"It's easier, isn't it, if we all just let it go." Edith looked up then, straightened her neck in subtle defiance. "If I hear of Michael's whereabouts or have news, I will let you know."

Cora smoothed her skirt and brushed away imaginary lent, plumbing for words that wouldn't come. "Darling, I don't mean to make it worse. It's just that we worry for you. You've been so trapped in this…dark place."

"Really, Mama, must we dramatize it? I've had a child and it's done. I've no wish to keep discussing it or reliving it. Stiff upper lip, all right? Let's get on with it. Nothing's changed. I'm alone and working and trying to move on. Can't you just let me?" Edith's voice never rose, but the even nature of it frightened her mother. No emotion broke it. No solace or comfort to be taken that, in fact, Edith—her daughter who had loved so openly and been crushed so brutally multiple times in her life now—had survived this ordeal.

As Cora stood, she heard Edith's typewriter begin again its steady refrain of clatter and she watched in earnest. For all she could tell, Edith Crawley appeared a ghost of a person, a shell life and love failed to inhabit any longer. Tears pricked her eyes, but before they fell, Cora turned and walked out.

Edith waited for the door to close again and then let her head collapse into her hands, and the heat of emotion held at bay during those moments with Cora swept through her. Controlling her emotions in front of them, even her mother, proved difficult—and, yet, when she thought of it she realized it was simply a continuation into adulthood of all she'd done as a child. She knew she must continue the pretense, put up the false front of being all fine and good. Survival, really. Allowing them to know that her daughter lived just minutes from her, that the secret she kept so close could harm her—and her family—still, drove her to a hardness she'd only glimpsed in the past. A cold like she'd never felt…well, she had, but not since that day…since he'd walked away and left her humiliated. In an effort to keep herself together and prevent a complete disintegration, Edith behaved as though all was well. The family knew nothing of her daughter and her daughter knew nothing of her. Edith in the middle. The all-too-familiar role…she knew and Tim Drewe knew and no one else could possibly…


	3. Chapter 3

_The couple stood in the darkened corridor after the wedding. Edith leaned back against the bedroom door—_their _bedroom door—her gown giving a slight shimmer at her curves courtesy of the moonlight seeping and stippling the hall through unseen windows._

_"Are you all right?" Edith asked._

_"I don't—" She heard him swallow and try again. "I want you, but I don't…want to hurt you and I know I will," he whispered._

_"You won't." Edith touched the silk of his cravat, her slender fingers working it by feel as her eyes searched his in the shadows. "Anthony…" She felt the heat from his chest as she finished with the tie, slid it from his shirt collar, let it fall beside them…and leaned closer, kissed him again and again between soft words… "This…is…so right…" _

_"It is…I want you…so much…for so long…" Anthony succumbed, tempted beyond prudence by the taste of her as he sought more with his lips and tongue, his hand at her cheek and jaw, her lovely neck, the gasp he heard as he tasted her skin, the delicate boundary of flesh where the dress slid from her shoulder, as his body pressed hers, the room to breathe between them gone…the distance closed as the door opened behind them…_

"Sir Anthony? Major, can you hear me? Anthony…"

The voice sounded muffled, far-off through the haze, the gravitational tow of the dream causing him to stagger into consciousness until the oncoming light startled him. Anthony winced and tried to shrink further into the pillows as the piercing beam came for the other eye, held up his hand to block it. "Wh—what happened?"

"You passed out." The familiar accent of Dr. Richard Clarkson greeted him, and when he did open his eyes, he continued to blink from the brightness as his eyes adjusted. "Stewart called right away. Thought you'd suffered a heart attack or something close to it."

"Sorry to have bothered you, Dr. Clarkson. I'm fine, I'm sure." Anthony sat up fully in his bed and looked about the room. The one lamp and the fire left the two men in close shadows; outside the afternoon rain pelted the windows. Anthony, grateful for the darkness of the room after the shock of light, watched as the doctor sifted through his bag. "You shouldn't have come in this weather."

"'Tis no bother. I've been meaning to come by anyway."

"Oh?"

"Let's settle this first." Clarkson leaned over with his stethoscope. Anthony's shirt lay open and he flinched at the chill of the instrument's touch on his skin. Several moments passed in utter quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the occasional deep, audible breath Clarkson required. "Your heart—physically—is excellent."

Anthony began buttoning his shirt again as he lay in bed, adjusted his posture against the pillows.

"Sir Anthony, this…reaction…you had has nothing to do with your actual heart." Dr. Clarkson waited for his patient's attention and, when he didn't get it and the gentleman only appeared embarrassed and distracted, fidgeted with his hand at his brow or through his hair, Clarkson continued. "We've known each other for a long time. You've suffered in that time; God knows I've seen you through every loss, each one with its own degree of hope and joy attached and then destroyed, until…your son and Lady Strallan…but then the war and— Sir Anthony, I know what you've endured, the injuries physical and otherwise, and you can't talk yourself into dying—" Anthony's head snapped up and his eyes finally met Clarkson's. "At least it hasn't been proven yet. I know. I know I've said it all before. You're not the only one of my patients who's tried it. And Stewart and I are well aware of your other…attempts…to find peace. Your life is haunted and, in some ways, the only way to face this is to make amends with the demons and whatever or whomever…" He gave up then, stuffed his stethoscope into his bag as it sat on the bed, tired of the repetition. Both men knew better; both men had been here before, knew their lines, the parts they played in the tragedy of post-war reality. Exasperated, Clarkson took another breath, and stood to try another tack. "May I be direct?"

Anthony nodded.

"Lady Edith Crawley."

A beat.

"I realize the dangers in assuming from where I stand on the outside; apologies for my wrongly drawn conclusions, if, indeed, they are wrong. You have been nothing short of a recluse, Sir."

Anthony sat quiet. No use in denying truths.

"Lady Edith Crawley and you and these past years." Dr. Clarkson sat still by the edge of the bed, selecting each word with care, a concentrated frown evident. "Only foolish doctors believe the mind and body are separate, neither affecting the other; I'm no fool."

"As I well know, Doctor. You've always been attentive and insightful, but in this matter—Lady Edith—I'm afraid there's nothing to be done, no healing, so to speak, to be had."

Clarkson shook his head, unwilling to tolerate the sweeping away of the issue. "Have you been able to find any sort of forgiveness or peace after what happened, from her or yourself?"

"I don't deserve either."

"Forgive me, but as I'm your doctor and your health—all aspects of it—is of great concern to me, I must be utterly truthful: It's killing you. It—the injury, the self-hatred, the loss of love—all of it is a gaping wound and it's killing you. You know as well as I that a sound mind can be trapped within a damaged or diseased physical body; an unsound mind can live in the confines of a beautifully functioning one. Where there is both, life in the emotional being and life in the physical…those lives intertwine. You aren't dying physically—not yet—but your hurt is going to affect your body soon enough; your rather disconcerting wish will come true eventually! Do you really want it to? Do you really want to suffer all these days with your one arm and your broken heart only to finally crumble completely physically? Slow, painfully slow. Haven't you had enough of that?" The doctor's voice had risen and Anthony could no longer handle the intensity of Clarkson's look. The two listened for a minute to the sheets of precipitation falling outside, both glancing toward the window to escape, to take a breath. "Try and heal the wound—yours and hers. Find a way."

"How? You know all too well of my foolishness and cruelty. She will never talk to me. There's no reason to hurt her again by initiating such an act."

"I've found in my years of medicine that 'never' is as fictional as 'always' and both are unreliable and inconsistent, regardless of their very definitions."

"So you believe I should write her or find a way to meet with her?"

"I do. Sooner rather than later."

"Would be a disaster. She'd never receive a letter from me…"

"Then don't send it by post."

"What do you mean?"

"I seem to recall your man, Stewart, is quite the resourceful chap and knows how to get things done. Find a way," Clarkson repeated. "For your own sake as well as hers, possibly." The good doctor's eyebrows rose in concert with the imploring tilt of his head.

"What do you mean? Is she all right—I mean well? Is she well?" Of course she wasn't all right, Anthony knew that much, but surely…

Clarkson gathered his bag in his hand. "In my professional opinion, she appears as you do—though I've no logical reason to know why after these years, nor would I be able to share it with you if I did know. For some time she seemed well and happy again, but…not recently, not from what I've seen, which admittedly has been very little." The moment passed and Clarkson straightened, segued to a different subject with a cautious breath. "There are new tests being done for those with inoperable—"

"Thank you, Doctor, really. But I'm done—"

"Are you certain? Major, I could get you into it—"

"And _Captain_, we both know you'd be wasting your time. Modern medicine has made great advances, I know. You do your utmost to keep me informed and I do read, but…there's still no regeneration, no way of igniting or somehow reviving a dead bundle of nerves—" Anthony looked up at him, his voice the softest of accusations. "Is there?"

Clarkson gulped, nodded his head in acceptance. "My dear friend, I only try because I know you deserve…after all you went through—"

"It's not your fault."

"I know. I only," he shrugged, smiled, "feel the need to keep trying…for you…and all the other men."

Anthony gave a half-smile. "I'm resigned, Dr. Clarkson. In this—" Anthony gestured to the dead right arm at his side. "I'm resigned."

As he turned to leave, a hand already on the door, the doctor faced Anthony once more. "Do contact her. And let me know if there are any changes."

"Of course."

For almost an hour, Anthony lay listening to the rain, his eyes searching the indistinct, shadow-plagued ceiling as he contemplated Edith's situation. He knew all that was at stake: her family, title, reputation…her sanity…her heart… Reconciling himself to the fact of Edith separated from her own child pierced him so deeply that the physical pain—unidentifiable in medical terms, but-still-present in his chest—remained after Clarkson's departure, a tightening and twisting powerful enough to cause him to intentionally take deep breaths to alleviate it. If a mother and child were alive, then there should be no question. And the father? Where was this Gregson—Germany? Still? The fact left Anthony seething. Nothing—_nothing—_should keep a man from the mother of his child or the child itself…save…death. And it was that thread of thought that allowed the demons to rear, the memories to erupt —horrific, terrifying sounds of Maud echoed again…and Philip…the silence of the anguished final breaths as Anthony tried to hold first his wife and then his tiny son to this life with frantic and steadfast, whispered pleas…and failed. They consumed him. Unable to stop the sounds, the images of grief that scattered and surrounded him, Anthony felt his body begin to tremble. He willed his mind, captured his thoughts with intent and tried to resettle on Edith, the confines of her situation, his love… Minutes passed. Once he felt his body calm, Anthony sat up and stood slowly next to the bed. He measured his breathing, closed his eyes, counted. Then, opening his eyes, he began to pace, a slow and methodical rhythm between the hearth and the bed until he heard a knock at his door and stilled himself by the window.

"Come in."

"Sir, can I help you at all?"

Anthony stared out the window pane through the rivulets of rain, his eyes tracing its paths, unable to see clearly beyond the distorted droplets through to the truth he sought. "I'm only thinking…"

"Is there anything in particular that requires attention? Anything I can do for you?"

Stewart stood beside the gentleman, only slightly shorter than Locksley's owner. Anthony glanced to him before resuming the conversation. "I have to do something…for Lady Edith."

"Sir, you don't even know for certain—"

"Yes, I do," Anthony said. "That face. Those eyes…her hair. Stewart, I have spent nearly every day of my existence since that hour remembering her every look and expression…her voice… If my friend—Bristol—is correct, then there's no doubt."

"What do you intend, Sir? A course of action you wish to initiate? Knowing all of this is only the smallest part of the dilemma. And what is the objective to it? If Lady Edith chose this—"

"I lost my wife and child, Stewart. Children. Four miscarriages and then Philip," Anthony whispered. Stewart did not miss Anthony's acidic tone as he, too, recalled the terrible afternoon of early 1912*. Anthony continued, his attention and voice still distant, appearing to scrutinize and glare at the outside acreage with bitterness, hurt. "I had no control over any of it. Lost all of them, Stewart, in spite of every precaution, every bit of money and time in hospital and under personal care of various _specialists_—all for naught. I know what it's like to lose everything and now…Edith's lost everything. It's my fault."

"Sir, the fault in her situation—I only mean that it's been quite some time and it can't be yours, surely—"

"It is and I have to do something—shield her and the child with time and money...travel, perhaps. I pray she'll tell me the situation, what's been done for it to be like this, and then we'll consider the details of a solution, a proposal of sorts." The word struck him then: proposal. The sickness and deliverance at once in it and then he brushed it aside with an obvious cringe and a wave of his hand. "I have to set things right. I just have to find a way…a beginning somehow. Are you up for, perhaps, delivering a letter…" Anthony looked Stewart in the eye. "A rather secret letter to begin? I don't want anyone hurt any more than necessary. I know Edith will be; it's unavoidable if I re-enter her life given what I did. But this can't be done by post and I need to talk with her—in person—to see if she'll…try to understand…"

"You know I will do my best, Sir."

"Always, Stewart. I know you always do." Anthony gave his valet a polite, half-smile of dismissal, watched Stewart close the door behind him and turned back to the windows and the constancy of the rains streaming, now matching the tears that fell as he offered a strained whisper to the panes and the fates and the absent, "It is me who has failed so often…those I love more than anything in this life...God, please, don't let me fail her again. Please…"

* * *

A/N: This scene is the prologue for my other story, All the Difference.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: First, thank you so much for reading and reviewing, following, and for the favorites! I am inexplicably touched when I read your responses to my stories…thank you so much! Second, I apologize for any confusion: I am so grateful and blessed to say that someone thought of me for a Highclere Award and I send my very sincere and heartfelt thanks to the reader who thought to do so kind an act as to nominate me. I received the email this past weekend and I accepted, but—given this is my first time—I was uncertain as to decorum and was waiting until the official nominations were posted to say as much. Please forgive my faux pas in the order of things. I'm very excited and honored to be considered and to have been welcomed so warmly into this fandom :) You all are—still and always—the best!**

**Regarding this little story… I've not seen S4 or the Christmas Special; I refuse (with the exception of a friend's insistence that I watch the "Anna" scene, which I did, and I became somewhat, ever-so-slightly…furious—with the writing—again). *I appreciate very much Baron's assistance in this endeavor* in constructing this story as much from canon as possible, with some alterations, of course. Anthony Strallan has no children; Edith has a child she can't have, so to speak. I'm working from the premise that he loves her so deeply that he would feel her pain in enduring such heartbreak and that he would be provoked into action rather than passively allowing her to suffer a life without her daughter, that he would seek to set things right as much as possible and in a redemptive manner for her so as to spare her the pain he's known for so many years, and that he would expect nothing from her in return in terms of forgiveness, etc. I've said before that I don't think he would be the pursuing party in canon—ever (because he's so stubborn about believing she deserves better!)—****_except_**** in the case that she would ****_need _****him or what he can provide in some way. I hope I'm setting that foundation clearly and in a believable/IC narrative here…and, as always, I hope you're enjoying it :) Please do let me know what you think if you have a moment and thank you again for reading! **

The seed of the passion and habit began in 1914. Driving: the one pleasure she derived from the courtship with Anthony that remained pure, in a sense. London allowed her no opportunities, given the chauffeurs and taxis amidst the swarming bustle of the city. Downton and Yorkshire, however, allotted her freedom from family and from the pollution of the city...and her past. When the writing overwhelmed or letters drove her to the brink or fussy writers complained of her editorial choices or Mary and Mama interrupted with concern or annoyance or the beginning of endless questions or—worse—when thoughts of her, no she wasn't hers any longer, but when thoughts of _her_ came with no warning or mercy, Edith stole away and drove.

Lawrence, Downton's chauffeur, became used to the sight: Lady Edith appeared in gloves and dress and a wide smile, almost physically embracing the liberty as she walked to the garage and left in such haste that he swore marks from the tires were left on the flooring and Lord Grantham, if he knew, would have his head for such brazen behavior with the family vehicles.

This afternoon was no different. Lady Edith gave a courteous smile and strode confidently to the door. "Good afternoon, Lawrence."

"Afternoon, milady." Lawrence tipped his cap with a knowing grin. "Short drive, milady?"

"Not sure," Edith admitted. "We'll see. Is there enough petrol?"

"Of course, milady. Filled it up this morning in case you might be going out today—are you sure you won't allow me to—"

"I'm certain." Edith sighed and hesitated only a moment before climbing in to the driver's seat. "It's a beautiful day. I'll be a while, I think. Thank you."

* * *

Stewart glanced from the man's shaky hand up to his intent eyes. "Are you sure, Sir?"

"I am, Stewart." Anthony studied the envelope in the afternoon shadows cast by the windows and draperies in the library. The black, cursive strokes barely dry on the paper. _Lady Edith Crawley_. "And you're certain you won't be seen?"

Stewart gave away a half-smile, the slightest quirk of his lips, discretion always.

Anthony nearly chuckled at his valet's expression. "Of course you won't. I'm not sure why the words left my mouth; I know you well enough to know you can be a ghost when you wish."

"Worked to my advantage in the war is all."

"Absolutely. Be careful. Probably best she won't be seeing me anyway."

"The drive appears to be a routine one, a familiar road she likes to race down. She stops occasionally; let's hope she stops today. If not, I'll try again." Stewart took his watch in hand from his vest. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Stewart."

With a gentle close of the door, the valet was gone… Anthony stood by the hearth in Locksley's library, rubbed his eyes, still bleary from the sleepless nights, and let out a slow, pained, prayer-filled exhalation.

* * *

Edith sped along the country road, knew every turn by heart, and she slowed the vehicle as she came to the familiar bend. On the warmer days of her drives, Edith parked and walked, let her thoughts drift to happier times. Though she'd never admit it, his name and countenance surfaced in her mind's eye more frequently than she cared to acknowledge. This drive, the well-worn roads and some not-quite-so, remained her favorite…even after nearly ten years…even knowing it was the route they'd last taken together not two days prior to _that day_.

On this particular afternoon, Edith parked, felt the warmth of the sun as she turned the engine off and stepped out. Her eyes drank in the sight of the waning sun still above the trees, the slight breeze tickling the tall grasses and nearby orchard rows and she turned to see the distant outbuildings and sheds of a farm. Edith closed the door and heard the crunch of the dirt and stone beneath her boot-covered feet and walked around the vehicle to begin her slow amble along the boundary. A deep breath of the sweet air and she lifted her eyes from the tire treads in the dust to—

"Oh my God!"

"My most sincere apologies, milady. I mean no harm; I'm afraid there was no other way…not with all that's happened."

Anthony Strallan's valet stood just three meters from her where the road and field blended. Always tall, nearly his master's height, he remained so still someone driving by might never have noticed. His tan coat fused with the pasture colors behind him; his hair, only slightly darker than the growing field of grains, blew astray even as his hazel eyes never wavered, his gaze firmly on her. Edith could see no difference in him than from when she last saw him three years prior: slender-but-muscular build, a patience in the very way he carried himself, and shoulders broad enough to bear any of his own burdens as well as that of the world's that she knew Anthony assumed on his own. In her time with Anthony, Edith came to know this man now in front of her, of his kindness, loyalty, and even sheepish nature when he'd quietly offered his congratulations upon seeing Edith for the first time after their engagement—she'd been so pleasantly surprised at his sincere blush and overwhelmed with the joy of knowing she was Anthony's that she'd looked first to Anthony and then hugged Stewart, remembering her place moments later as she, too, found her cheeks warming. Yes, looking at Stewart, knowing him as she did, all fearful surprise left her…replaced now with wonder and curiosity and then pain.

"Stewart? What are you doing here? How did you—"

"I'm sorry again, milady, for giving you a fright."

"What did you say? What's this about—there's no other way?"

He didn't move. His hands at his sides. "I thought you might be here and I have a message for you."

"How…"

Stewart cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, but this was important enough—"

"Important enough to whom?"

"Both of you."

Edith felt the breath knocked out of her and Stewart took two strides and held her arm, steadied her.

"The last thing he wants is to hurt you, so he believed a sort of chance meeting might be better."

"Not much 'chance' to it if you _knew_ I'd be here!"

"It was worth it to give you the message. I've made a point of learning your favorite routes…not following you, but…just learning… Please don't take offense, milady."

The heaviness in Edith's body, the anguish emerging, caused her to stumble back despite Stewart's grasp and he reached for her to catch her and escorted her back to the front of the car, held the door and urged her to sit. For several moments, she sat stunned in the front seat behind the steering wheel of the car. Stewart knew she was absorbing it all still, paralyzed…that there would be an eruption… He backed away just slightly from where the car door had swung open and within moments of catching her breath, Edith pushed herself out of the seat and slammed the door of the car shut in one motion. One hand thrust through her hair, the other gesturing to the air and then resting at her hip as she paced.

Stewart waited, observed the lady carefully. There was a strength to Lady Edith Crawley—a beauty—most people seemed not to notice. In her time at Locksley, he knew Anthony saw it…worshiped her for it…and, in a matter of a few visits, Stewart easily came to appreciate it as well. The hour ticked by; he felt the passage, witnessed the force of her will and pride tangle with the pain. And he waited.

Finally, Edith stopped and glared at him, marched right up to him and with her fierce, dark eyes on him, glistening in the midst of the emotion, she spoke, even and controlled, though barely. "Why now? What's there to say? He left me. You—you have a message from him?"

"Yes, milady." Stewart's hand went to the breast pocket inside his coat and he removed the letter.

"What could there possibly be to say? My life is…" She hung her head, one hand to her face, her fingers wiping the tears, the back of her hand at her lips to prevent further broken syllables from escaping.

Stewart took her other hand in his and placed the envelope in it, gently closing her fingers around it. Edith gathered herself, looked at the envelope, and then up at him.

"It's his handwriting."

"For you."

"I haven't…seen it in so long. I'd know it though…anywhere." Edith sniffled and Stewart gave her his handkerchief. "Thank you."

She held the small, rectangular stationery, traced the lines of her name.

"You know what it says, don't you?" Edith knew the answer without looking at him. "You're still his confidant—and rightly so. What does he want, Stewart?"

"I believe, milady, it's not what _he _wants—it's about what he can do to help you have what you _want_…and need."

Edith looked up, but Stewart's expression stayed the same: a mixture of wisdom, vulnerability, and depth she saw in his eyes that always gave her comfort…even now when so much of the afternoon's circumstances seemed beyond her understanding, incredible. They both focused on the envelope and, with another deep breath and her eyes shut as in prayer, Edith slid her finger and broke the seal.

_Lady Edith…_

She could hear his voice, despite the years…

_Please forgive Stewart. He's only fulfilling my wish to contact you in as private a manner as possible so as not to alarm or reveal. I'm so sorry for the pain this communication will cause you…so sorry for it all._

_It is imperative I see you to talk; this is too significant to relay in a letter. I pray you will allow me this opportunity—though I know I don't deserve it—however, I believe it to be of the utmost importance and can only, after you hear me out, believe that you will agree it is, indeed, quite important to you as well. _

_If you agree, please relay the information of a time and place to Stewart and I will meet you. Please—I beg you—please agree to meet me…_

Stewart felt the cooling of the winds and glanced to see the sun now lost in the tops of the trees. Edith re-read the words, the echoes of his voice.

"So, I'm to meet him when he summons me after _jilting _me at the altar?" The venom in her tone didn't shock him, didn't bring Stewart to retreat at all—he'd been waiting. Edith relented for the moment. "What's this about? Please, just tell me and I'll decide whether to meet him based on that."

"I can't say, milady."

"You won't."

"I won't."

Edith scowled at the words and then let her hand drop to her side as she stared past Stewart into the fields, the orchard beyond. "Should I—should I let him near me after all this time? After all that's happened?" The bitterness gave way to pure ache and when she looked up into his eyes once more, Stewart's face changed just enough…a softness, a tender quality found despite the angular jaw and cheekbones…

"Yes, milady. I believe you should. I know you're weary of him—with good reason. But you should know how much he wishes he'd…stayed… I shouldn't say more. So—will you see him, milady?"

With tears at bay, Edith nodded. "Locksley—tomorrow. I'll make my excuses and find a way to leave."

"Any particular time?"

"I'm really not sure—"

"It's all right. He'll be waiting for you. I promise."

* * *

_A/N: Ah, Stewart…I love him, too! In my humble imaginings, which began when I introduced him in The Way Home, Stewart is Anthony—only in the servant class-loyal, a man driven by ideals and morals and standards, yet sensitive, and with a unique understanding of frailty and human nature and, of course, tragedy. Stewart, however, has a sense of humor and confidence and insight, which Anthony lacks sometimes due to his PTSD. I like that Stewart is a bit enigmatic and I've hesitated to describe his looks because I've no wish to interfere with anyone else's idea of the perfect man. :) To me, Stewart is everything in one: Anthony's (and sometimes Edith's) voice of reason and a rock and, Lord knows, after what Anthony's been through, he needs one! I've been toying with the notion of expanding the background of Anthony's war experience (and Stewart's military service as well) and including some glimpses of his relationship with Stewart prior to the war, during, and after…we'll see… not sure if there's much interest in that though ;)_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thank you for all of your wonderful comments and reviews and PMs! As always, thank you for reading and reviewing :)_

Stewart returned to Locksley, quickly setting his hat and coat aside in the foyer before hurrying to the library. When he reached the doorway, he paused at the threshold of the sanctuary. Anthony sat at his desk, pen resting in his hand, hovering above the paper as though in mid-stroke—his attention on a small photograph propped on the smaller upper shelf of the desk almost at eye-level as he leant to compose. Clearly, the man's letter or ledgers remained…unfinished…

"Ahem," Stewart announced himself.

Anthony hastily grabbed the tiny frame and tucked it back in the drawer. "Ah, Stewart."

"I didn't mean to interrupt, Sir."

"No, no," Anthony said, standing. "You were gone for…some time."

"Yes." Stewart walked into the room, met Anthony where he stood. "She was surprised, as we knew she would be—quite shocked." At those words, Anthony's face clouded with a pained expression. Stewart held both hands up. "Sir, we knew to expect that. She read the letter."

"She did?"

Stewart nodded. "She said she would come here tomorrow to see you…"

The statement hung. Stewart felt himself waiting for the second time that afternoon as he observed disbelief and love and—was it fear?—at once in his master's pensive features.

"When?" Anthony practically mouthed the question, so soft was his voice…

"She wasn't certain exactly, Sir…"

Anthony winced. "Oh, I see…" He turned then and took two strides to the windows, his gaze first at the floor and then lifted to the fields beyond.

"Sir?"

"She won't come."

Stewart shook his head, but Anthony couldn't see it—his back to him. The valet appeared beside him. "She will. I assured her that you would be waiting."

Anthony glanced sideways, but only for a moment. "You sound sure. Why would she? I don't blame her for not trusting me or questioning this, but it isn't as though I could tell her what I know in the letter…seems inappropriate, I think, to declare this sort of secret on paper rather than in person."

"Quite right, Sir. Too much for a letter." Stewart kept his eyes on the panes. "She'll come. I know it."

Anthony shifted his feet, turned to face his man. "How are you so certain she wasn't just putting you off, too shocked or hurt to commit to a talk…to seeing me, of all people? How do you know?"

Stewart didn't smile, only turned to mirror Anthony's stance. "I am certain. It was the look on her face when she saw me...saw your handwriting and read the letter." Anthony frowned, mystified. "Pardon me, Sir, for saying so, but…"

"Yes? What is it?"

"It's something else you two have in common—that look."

Neither slept.

Edith feigned excuses and missed dinner, retired to her room and reread Anthony's letter, hid it each time footfalls were heard in the corridors, and then brought it out again. Guilt caused her to retrieve her few letters and telegrams from Michael; she read the last one she'd received, but then let the small stack alone…in favor of the one. _Lady Edith…Please—I beg you—please agree to meet me… _The letter was him: polite, direct, something more. His handwriting. She couldn't keep the tips of her fingers from the cursive lines of his name...and the curves and angles of her own. Edith always loved the fact that he wrote his own letters after his injury; he'd never explained it to her—the painstaking practice it must've taken. She remembered that afternoon: arriving to his surprise and catching him off-guard as he worked, dashing something off in that long-ago summer of 1914, how his right hand held the pen and his forearm—revealed to her by the casual, cuffed sleeve—easily moved on the desk as he completed the ledger before their walk; it was the first time she'd seen his skin beyond his hands and she almost sighed with displeasure when he'd dropped the pen and reached immediately to straighten and button both sleeves. Edith smiled at the memory for a moment and recalled how, in her mind as she'd watched him, she'd damned propriety and his gentlemanly manners for at least the third time since their courting had begun: Anthony, prim and proper, and Edith admitting to herself how many boundaries she _wished_ he'd cross. Indeed, just to see him at work writing became a pleasure and she'd often write or talk with him or be content to pretend to read whilst he worked, captivated by his concentration, his fingers as they wrote or turned a page or how his forearm flexed as he wrote or the lock of hair fell as he leaned. One afternoon spent in such a manner, Anthony surprised her and caught her observing him…only to bring her a letter he'd been writing—to her. That's when she first started to believe that this was love, that this was not _just _a competition with her sister or attention-seeking or desperation; she'd kept his letter either in her bed as she slept or on her night table until…

When she began visiting him again in January of 1920, she often chatted with him over tea or walked amongst the shelves as they discussed books or, in an effort to be physically close to him, peered over his shoulder in the guise of exploring the room or the view through the window while he worked at his desk; oftentimes, she noted the care he took with his left hand as a small weight stabilized the paper for him. The time and patience he exhibited, the way his eyes darkened as he focused. Edith reread the entire letter again, wiped an escaping tear from beneath her eye. What did he know? Or, worse, was he sick? Something terribly wrong? What could be so urgent _now_, so important that he had to see her after all this time?

Anthony lay in bed at Locksley for more than an hour before rising, pacing, and then resettling in his chair with a particular set of letters on the nearby table and lit embers fading before him in the hearth. Rehearsing his words—his proposal to her—proved futile, for he knew he didn't know enough about the circumstance to truly offer a solution. Instead, he touched the orderly leaves of paper, drawing one … _April, 1920… __As the date beckons, I find myself lost amidst the preparations…wishing we were already together. Being with you at Locksley—that's all that really matters to me and it can't happen soon enough… _She'd changed since those words, grown independent and, he knew, quite successful with her writing—and in the past months—editing one of the most popular periodicals in the country. And Edith's published writings? In his desk. All of them. Her opinions mature and sharp; her tone, at times, biting and cynical, yet vulnerable. Or was that his projection? Perhaps, after the pain she'd surely experienced, she'd nurtured her career and her heart hardened—how else could she abide giving up her daughter? What happened? The Edith he knew wouldn't give up…or…had she become so crushed—he'd done it. Rather than admit it to himself again, he shut his eyes and heard her cries for the thousandth time, the echoes he heard during the long walk up the aisle he'd taken alone. Now, after all that had happened, would she hear him out or scoff at his misguided, ludicrous sense of chivalry?

Before the morning light, Anthony sat at his desk in the library. Mrs. Brandon brought coffee and Stewart arrived. Shower, shave, fresh clothes—Edith's favorite charcoal tweed. Work, though with no concentration. Lunch alone, untouched. Silence still in the library, save for the clock's soft seconds passing. Twenty-four hours since Stewart met with her. Anthony counted, stared at the hands. He knew: she couldn't go through with it—despised him for even contacting her.

The library door released and Stewart interrupted Anthony's doubts. "May I get you anything, Sir?"

The clock registered nearly four o'clock. "No, thank you."

Stewart watched as Anthony resumed his familiar pose at his desk with shoulders stooped and hair beginning to fall on his forehead, the complete focus—seemingly—on work. The valet knew better...the photograph stood again, delicately placed at eye-level. "Do let me know, Sir."

Anthony didn't respond. Lost.

Nearly an hour passed and the door opened once more. Anthony didn't look up; his pen in hand and eyes trained on the paper and print in front of him. His tone revealed the impatience and frustration, the failed expectation of the day. "What is it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The dulcet sound of her voice. Anthony's pen fell and he turned towards the door and then, despite the subtle trembling, rose from his chair, his good hand helping him balance and then nervously brushing his hair back from where it had fallen to linger just by his eye, to no avail, however, as the lock only fell again. Edith hid the small smile and blinked back the simultaneous tears that threatened—nervous, blushing, those eyes. She didn't dare look away from him. No weakness could show. Anthony appeared the same, yet—if it was possible—sadder, thinner, even more haunted than she remembered.

Before he managed words, Anthony merely stared with lips slightly parted, lungs unable to usher in a breath. Edith stood still in her dark skirt and silk blouse, a soft mauve the color of her lips, her hair curled in a modern fashion. He couldn't help but marvel at what appeared to be his mind's conjuring of the most beautiful version of Edith he'd ever imagined… Except, as he studied her, the reality set in: darkness under her eyes, hollowness evident as she glared back at him—a metallic quality, a certain rigidity even in her gaze and posture.

"Hello?"

"I'm very sorry; I thought you were…" He swallowed and took a breath, to reflect some semblance of composure. "Hello, Lady Edith."

"Hello, _Sir _Anthony."

He felt the pierce. "I was afraid you'd decided not to see me."

Edith didn't reply, her silence a purposeful barrier; he had no right to know more than that she chose to come.

"What do you want?"

"I…I wish—" It was too soon, he thought. Tea should be served or something to make them more comfortable. "Would you like a cup of something?"

Edith's eyes crinkled, suspicion yielding to curiosity. "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."

Anthony rang the bell and arranged tea with Stewart, who—bless him—showed no emotion at all in the exchange. "Very good, Sir," was all and he was gone and Anthony turned back to his guest and gestured for her to take a seat, which thankfully, she did, on the sofa perpendicular to the hearth.

Anthony, ever the gentleman, waited, and then took his seat in the nearby chair only a couple of meters from her.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing—except to help you."

"Help me? What are you—"

"I know, Edith."

Her eyes narrowed, but she stalled—the door opened and Stewart arrived with the tray, poured them both cups and set them on the closest tables to each before leaving and shutting the door gently behind him.

Anthony paused, but she showed no interest in the tea. "A friend wrote to me of your…life in London. I knew of your work, but…my friend knew of your relationship…" Anthony hesitated, knew he'd just stepped into the coldest, deepest water, and he felt the bitter chill as her eyes drifted to the floor and then straight into him as the pieces came together for her; the fear of exposure she'd dreaded so long now creeping and constricting her heart. "As you can imagine, I see Dr. Clarkson regularly and in the village a short time ago and I saw…the most beautiful, tiny girl with one of the tenant farmers—her hair and eyes…were yours and –"

Anthony stopped and saw the tears beginning to well in her eyes. He moved to sit beside her and she froze where she sat. Without thinking about it, he reached for her hand and covered it with his.

"I've no wish to hurt you, but only to help you."

In all of Edith's most creative imaginings of others finding out about her child, about Drewe, _this_ situation never materialized: Anthony Strallan holding her hand and promising to help her. Help her what? Through her tears, Edith couldn't make sense of it. In the previous years, she'd thought, too, of what it would be like should she see him, run into him by chance, make eye contact from a distance—or worse, if they found themselves in close confines of a doorway or a carriage aisle of the train or…anywhere in which truth may be seen in too intimate a setting. Always, in the fantastical conceit, Edith recoiled from him, hissed a rebuke of the most perfectly terse and cutting manner to demonstrate what it felt like to be humiliated and made to stand alone in one's agony. Always, he was left without answers to questions or pleas…and, always, she walked away and left him behind in an exhibition of perfect poetic justice—stuttering and wondering and hurting. Never was his voice soft, his eyes wet with the emotion she thought she alone would feel, nor would his warm hand cover hers tenderly in solace. Never was he the one to discover her secrets, to shatter the hard-fought peace she believed she'd managed to settle in her soul over the decisions. Never…

"There are things you don't know. Things you can't fix, Anthony."

"Then you can tell me what I don't know; together, we can figure it out and this can be resolv—"

"No, it can't!"

"I'm not asking for anything, Edith, please, I only want to give—"

"Now? Now you want to _give _me something—my child? Now? What makes you think you can just call me here and turn my life upside-down after all of this time? I've made decisions and it's settled and done and no one can change it. I don't need you; I never—"

"Yes, we can change it. It _should _be changed. She's your daughter, Edith—"

"She's illegitimate, Anthony!" The very words brought a taste of bitterness and she snatched her hand from beneath his. "You can never change that!"

"She's your daughter and that won't change either—she should be with you."

"We still live in a world where this shouldn't happen, where women can't just have a child and bring it up without a father and husband and legitimacy, not a _lady _in my position—it's still very much the same harsh, judgmental world in which we grew up!"

Anthony leaned away, felt the condemnation, the heat of her argument and the quite-right verdict she leveled at him and their world, for jilting, for propriety, for expectations and he couldn't help but voice what he thought in that moment. "But you're changing it—your words and will are changing it—and I know you will continue to do so…I want you to. I just also want you to have your child, if you want her, to be a mother because I know she should be with you and how you are is—"

"What could you possibly know about it—being a mother?"

"I know what it's not! I know what it's like to lose a child to the permanence of death, for God's sake, over and over again! The torture it is to be unable to see them, to hold them… I don't want you to have to live knowing she's out there—somewhere—breathing and living and being without you!"

"Despite your history, you don't know what's best for me!"

Edith stood and turned to leave, but Anthony grabbed her wrist—firm, but tender. "I do in this—you're her mother, Edith, you should never have been forced to give her up!"

"I wasn't forced!" She jerked her arm from his hold.

"You…you…but why would you…"

"I had little choice, but I wasn't forced. My family doesn't really know—Mama knows I was pregnant, but they don't know this…where she is now…and I can't just take her back."

"But she's only a baby still—barely walking—surely now would be the time to bring her back—"

"And what?" Edith scoffed. "Admit everything? Suddenly have my child back—the questions, Anthony! My family dragged through the mud because of my—"

"I don't give a damn any longer about your family or what they think! I care about you—"

"Oh! So that's changed then—you putting me first before my family and their opinions?"

"I've always cared about you, however foolish I was in showing it. I wanted you to have a better life!" Edith opened her mouth to interrupt, but Anthony wouldn't let her. "And now, I still care about you—and you having your daughter—nothing is more important than you and your child."

"There's nothing to be done. She's safe and happy and nearby. There's nothing else to be done! Don't you see that? Can't you?"

"Mothers should have their children—keep them. Everything that you sacrifice to keep them, to bring them into the world only to lose them—"

"Anthony, this isn't about Maud and Philip… Me without her and everyone else blissfully ignorant is how we're all better off…"

"Not her…not her, not without you… This is entirely my fault." Anthony stepped closer, forcing Edith to look up at him. She saw the shallowness of his breaths, the panic, and felt the anxiety, as he pleaded, "I beg of you—please, let me help you, Edith; I want to fix this wrong."

"I did it. It's not your wrong to fix—"

"It is! Very much my wrong, my fault that it ever came to this. I should've given you everything; she should've been _our _daughter, but I was foolish and wanted more for you. I walked away from you—twice—knowing you deserved so much more and swore I'd never hurt you. Please, Edith, please. Let us find a way to reunite you with your daughter…"

Edith sighed, looked at him and his glistening eyes, a mixture of pity and despair on her face, and then she walked out, wiping her own tears away in haste as she whispered to herself and the fates and him, if only he would hear her, "It's too late, Anthony…it's far too late…"


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: T__here's quite a bit to fix between these two, so it's going to take a bit and I hope that's all right. Thank you, as always, for taking the time to read and review..._

* * *

"Milady?"

Edith was already out the door, not bothering to shield herself from the falling rain. She slammed the car door, only giving a brief look to Stewart through her tears and the spatters of drops on the window. Before he could react or move from the entryway, a crash sounded in the library, and Stewart watched as Edith sped away from Locksley. He closed the door, hurried down the hall.

"Damn!" Anthony stood over the broken cup and saucer, the spilt tea pooling near his shoes. "A disaster." Stewart saw the man still shaking and immediately rang for Mrs. Brandon and Shelagh, the assistant and maid. As he watched the ladies begin to clean up the small mess, with Anthony apologizing repeatedly, Stewart took the gentleman by the arm and led him from the room to the nearby dining room.

"Are you all right, Sir?"

"No, no, I'm not all right. Neither is she."

"Lady Edith…?"

"She refused my help, refused to tell me anything." Anthony paced, his hand through his hair before settling on the back of his neck absently rubbing, kneading his own tension. He paused and stared out the window, noticing the weather. "You saw her go?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"She looked quite upset."

Anthony blanched. "Was she driving or was the chauffeur?"

"I believe she was alone. She came of her own accord—"

"That's right. Stewart, she drives too fast and these conditions... She shouldn't be—this weather, how upset she was—" Anthony was already turned, headed to the door.

"Sir, wait—"

"Drive, please, Stewart. Follow this main road until we see her. I only want to make sure she arrives safely—hurry!"

* * *

Edith drove far too fast, of course. At a bend, she had to overcorrect and the sharp reflexes brought by the adrenaline saved her life. After the swerve, she slowed and then parked the car, hugged the steering wheel and let her head fall to her hands. The tears and rage burst, an overdue implosion muted by the sound of the rain bombarding the vehicle.

"Why—why!"

The screams echoed inside. Again. And again...

"Edith! Edith!"

Anthony opened the door, bent near her, and held his coat over the opening to protect her from the rain.

"Edith? Are you all right?"

She didn't answer. Shook her head and looked up at him, and his heart broke—again. He reached for her and she pulled away from him.

"Edith? Please?"

Anthony then stepped onto the footboard and leaned in, his jacket and hair now soaked. Edith slid further, just enough, and Anthony closed the door, the two of them alone in her car.

"I'm sorry—I knew you were upset and I was worried for you. I'm so sorry—for this and hurting you and everything, all of it. Edith?"

He was out of breath from frantic worry, the rain dripping from his hair, his eyelashes. Edith studied him, blinked back some of the remaining tears from her red eyes, and couldn't keep her fingertips from his brow and eyes, his hair mussed from the wet and wind—swiping the rivulets of water, touching his cheek before she could stop herself.

Anthony sat mesmerized. Even as she cleared the streams of rainwater from his face, her own tears continued to fall and he lifted his hand, his thumb and finger brushing them away, the back of his hand at her cheek. "Oh, my sweet one… Let me help you."

Her gaze, as though she could see directly inside him, still measured him with suspicion. He could see it, sought to counter it, imploring her to see everything else, everything he felt, but couldn't name or tell her of, not with so much fractured time having passed between them.

"I know you've no reason to trust me, not after what…I did, but please…hear me, Edith. I was so wrong; I know I can't go back or make things right, but I want to help you in any way I can, any way you'll let me." When he saw no reaction, he rambled, still confessing, seeking penance for his mistakes. "I swear it, Edith, whatever means necessary for you to have her, to have the life you've dreamt of—buying what you need, what she needs in the future, shielding you from whatever gossip or scandal or…I'll do anything to regain your trust, to make sure you have what you want or, her father even, what of him? Whatever—"

She finally silenced him with her fingertips at his lips, her eyes lighting on his face and the drops of rain slipping from his hair, as though she were dazed, caught in another time. "Anthony…"

For a moment, he saw it in her eyes, her face inches from his, only a breath between them, but then just as quickly she snatched her hand away from him, stung, her eyes searching the windshield and sheets of rain still pouring.

"I need to go."

"But Edith—"

"Please leave me." When he didn't move, too stunned, she didn't risk a glance, but merely raised her voice. "Please just go!"

Stricken, Anthony bowed his head. "Of course, whatever you wish. But if you change—"

"Get out!"

Edith barely waited for him to be out of the car before reaching for the door herself and shutting it with frightening force. As she drove away, her eyes drifted to the rearview and she saw him there: hurting, rain falling, soaking him as he stood in the road, knowing his blue eyes were staring down the road and would watch her until she turned out of sight…

* * *

"Darling, you're all wet. Where've you been?"

"I went for a drive," Edith mumbled.

"You will be down for dinner?" Cora asked, worried.

"No, I won't. I'm not feeling well at all, Mama."

"That's not surprising; you're wet and cold. Can Anna get you anything? Some tea, perhaps? Or have the fire seen to for your room?"

"Yes, to both, thank you."

Edith hurried past her mother and up to her room, closed the door behind her and hastened to remove her wet attire in favor of her dry nightgown and a favorite sweater to ward off the chill. She sat in the chair nearest her window, surveyed the water as it cascaded down the glass, and thought… and on that afternoon and for the first time in years, her thoughts centered on Anthony Strallan, on her child, on all he'd said…the promises and pleas, those earnest blue eyes filled with pain—and something else? Edith shut her own eyes, but the image didn't disappear.

* * *

Stewart asked nothing of what happened, could tell when he retrieved Anthony from the pouring rain that no words could comfort. The drive, slow with the constancy of the battering rain, was silent.

Anthony changed into dry clothes, refused dinner, and took a brandy instead to warm himself in the library. When the hour became late, Stewart walked in, found Anthony at his desk with the brandy still half-full and the photograph propped up near the paper and pen. This time, however, Anthony made no move to conceal it.

Hearing his valet enter, feeling his presence behind him now, Anthony whispered, "Our engagement. I let it get too far, but…God how happy we were…"

"You didn't let it get too far, Sir. You were only trying to protect her."

"Yes…she deserved—deserves—so much more."

Stewart moved the nearest chair to sit beside him. "And you're trying to give her that."

Anthony's fingers touched the small frame…

_Edith laughed. "You don't have to worry about me—I've been smiling for nearly two straight weeks now. I can certainly maintain it for a photograph."_

_"As can I," Anthony said. "I only wish this was in color, my sweet one. You're beautiful, my blushing bride-to-be…"_

_"And you, my gentleman groom, and your eyes…"_

_The couple had simultaneously amused and annoyed the photographer then, gazing at one another and not facing the camera. Edith lightly touching his hair and then kissing his cheek, as had become her custom—a touch and then a kiss, for she couldn't be close to him without doing so… _

"Do you think you'll hear from her? That perhaps she'll change her mind, Sir?"

Anthony shook his head, took the glass in his hand and swallowed what remained. "It's done. I tried, but it's far too late, I think…in her mind. If she's at peace, then…I suppose I should be as well, not that peace is possible or even what I deserve. But I can't believe she is, Stewart, not for a moment and just knowing that—and I do know it—I can't possibly accept it…yet she is forcing me to."

Stewart frowned at Anthony's resignation and then watched as he refilled the glass…

"Repaying me," Anthony muttered.

"Beg your pardon, Sir?"

"I made up her mind for her—jilted her—humiliated her. Now, here I am arrogantly butting in without even knowing what all's happened…she owed me this, I suppose, and so much more. And I deserve it all..."

Stewart offered no reply, only a silent entreaty, as he watched Anthony take a sip, grimace first at the burn, and then flinch again at the residual pain it failed to wash away…

* * *

Edith tried to distract herself, took up her journal, the latest papers to peruse, but then, as the rain dissipated and night fell, she found herself staring at the drawer by her bed, and she stood and walked to it. She shook her head as she knelt before it and, against her own will, she reached and touched the small knob.

"I shouldn't…I shouldn't…" She did.

The drawer of the night stand, shallow and wide, held everything she'd once cared about when she'd lived at Downton and now it was pulled open. Her eyes closed as if in prayer, Edith's fingers found the tiny box. The only ring box she'd ever been given. Holding it, the promise of it, she felt the pain all over again, of watching him walk away from her…heard the words she'd failed to hear that afternoon…his reasons and her own family's disapproval…he loved her…and, for her own good, broke them both…

The ring. Taking it from the box, Edith sat on the floor, rested her back and head on the bed, and peered at the cut of the diamond, the surrounding sapphires that matched it along the white gold band.

"Michael gave me everything…but this…and you gave me this…instead of everything…the everything I wanted with you…"

Sleep overtook her. When she woke with an ache in her neck in the first hours of the morning, she stood and stretched and walked to the full-length mirror by her wardrobe. Examining her eyes in the shadows, the emotionally shattered woman she'd grown used to seeing in the reflecting glass, she reached to touch the dark circles, and saw the glint of light—the ring she'd put on her finger—she gasped. She looked at it, studied it on her hand, the radiance fashioned from the still-glowing embers of the fire…and glanced again at the mirror and saw a glimpse of truth for the first time in months…

* * *

He didn't sleep, not in his bed. He'd nodded off after assuring Stewart he would retire. The brandy's effects won out and he woke in the early hours with a crick in his neck. The chill of the library gave him a shiver and he took the andiron and stoked what was left of the fire. Returning to his desk, he tried again—a letter, an apology of some kind. When he couldn't find the words, he'd traced the photograph again. A book. Poetry. Keats and the Romantics. The clock ticked on, unaware of his heartache, and he read and re-read and penned notes by the words until Stewart found him there a couple of hours later when the sun rose. The valet poured his coffee and left again, only to return a short while later.

"A post for you, Sir."

Stewart waited a moment after handing it to Anthony; he knew the sender's handwriting and, when his master took the envelope, Stewart saw the halting breath.

"Edith…?"


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Thank you wonderful readers! As always, my goal is to remain true to these two and I hope I'm on the mark here. I also very much hope you enjoy this latest installment..._

* * *

Anthony Strallan painstakingly broke the seal and unfolded the letter, then frowned at the sheer amount of blank space as he read:

_March 4, 1924_

_Lunch. Today. _

_E_

"Please let Mrs. Brandon know that Lady Edith—" Anthony looked up to his valet. "Lady Edith will be joining me for lunch."

"Right away, Sir. Anything in particular regarding instructions?"

"I'm sure Mrs. Brandon remembers well enough Lady Edith's favorites…"

"Of course, Sir. Anything else?"

"I'll shower and change as well."

"Very good, Sir."

* * *

Edith shifted her weight in front of the mirror, checked the back of her pale pink dress again as she stood in profile. She'd thought it through during the restless night, penned the curt note, and mixed the envelope amongst the other outgoing posts, binding the stack neatly together for easy pick-up before any other family member stirred. Now, as she confronted herself in the mirror, she felt the doubts settling in. She shut her eyes.

"It won't hurt to just tell him and there's no plan, there's nothing he's going to say—nothing he _can _say, nothing he can _do_…"

She opened her eyes and felt her tongue still with the finishing of the thought. _But you want him to…and what if he can? _ Edith banished the idea then, grabbed her purse, and made her way down the stairs.

"Edith, aren't you joining us for lunch?" Robert asked seeing her passing from inside the library where he sat. He rose and met her at the doorway. "Or are you…?"

"Sorry, Papa. I'm headed out—to York. Some business to see to there, so I'll be gone the whole of the afternoon, perhaps even dinner." Edith kissed his cheek and quickly walked away.

"Be careful, darling," Robert's voice echoed as she waved without turning and closed the door behind her.

As she drove, more carefully this day than the previous, Edith kept rehearsing what she wanted to say, the words to relate to Anthony the story of all that had happened, the secrets no one knew, and, between fits of anger and frustration and hurt, she found herself—if she overcame her stubborn pride long enough to admit it—marveling at what seemed a full circle: here she was almost ten years later about to share her life with the one man who'd shown her interest and who'd seen the very best in her as a young woman, who, after destroying her in the most heartbreaking fashion, now, presumably, wished to help her complete her life in the most concrete way, if that was possible, by bringing her together with her daughter. The heartbreak she heard in his voice reverberated in her mind…

"My God, Anthony, what are we doing?" She spoke the words softly as Locksley came into view. Parking the car, Edith looked to the surrounding stone wall, the orchards she'd loved to walk through, the home itself. "What are we doing? What am_ I_ doing here?"

* * *

Stewart heard the car motor from just inside the door and waited…and waited.

"Was that her?" Anthony asked, standing just down the corridor.

Stewart nodded. "I believe she's still sitting there, Sir."

The two men stood quiet, a beat passing between them, mirrored looks of concern passing. "I'll go out to her. Make sure she's all right," Anthony declared. He tugged at his collar, took a breath, and Stewart saw the tremor in his hand as Anthony smoothed his tan tie and coat.

Stewart opened the door for him. Anthony walked out to Edith's car, saw that she appeared to be in the middle of a quite-serious monologue.

"Why am I doing this—here and now?"

Her voice was loud enough that he easily heard her, saw her reach to start the engine again, and he knocked quickly and gently on the window, startling her. Her eyes shot to the window and her hand covered her chest; once she could breathe again, she opened the door. "Terribly sorry," he said.

"No, it's all right. I just—" She stepped out and looked up into his sunlit eyes, forgot herself.

"I didn't mean to frighten you; I was worried when you didn't come in. You looked as though you were…having doubts—" When she didn't respond, Anthony gestured towards the house. "Why you're here right now, you asked…just now? For lunch, yes?" His crooked, tentative smile hadn't changed and neither had his own insecurities, for she could see it in his eyes—the fear; she knew he'd seen her about to leave.

"I'm sorry, yes. Lunch is all," she agreed, a note of finality. As she followed him inside, Edith bargained with herself again—how much to tell, how much to conceal…

Anthony led her to the dining room first and then turned to her. "Seems a bit formal—would you be more comfortable—"

"In the library," Edith interrupted. "Please." The shy smile and sad courtesy tore at Anthony's heart.

"Of course."

Anthony led her to the library before disappearing. Stewart and Mrs. Brandon brought in a suitable table and lunch and exchanged polite pleasantries, with Anthony standing aside, waiting for them to be alone.

Neither touched their food. Each waiting on the other. Nervous glances, first to the plates, and then to one another. When their eyes met, their smiles offered were pained.

"Perhaps—"

"This looks—"

Simultaneous beginnings and both laughed, apologized over one another and then sat silent. Anthony raised his hand.

"Lady Edith, my apologies—again. Please? Go ahead."

"First, please don't use my title." She emphasized the words with raised brows and a gentle smile. "Mrs. Brandon was very kind to do all of this and, I sincerely apologize—I'm not very hungry right now."

Anthony placed his hand in his lap and shook his head. "Not important. I just want you to be…comfortable."

"I invited myself—"

"Not at all. I'm so glad you did."

Edith watched him closely for a long moment, glanced to her tapping fingers and folded them together, tucked them beneath the table, kept her head lowered.

"Edith, you don't have to tell me anything. I don't want to force you—"

"Actually, if you're serious—and even if you're not—I don't know how to tell you anything—" She finally lifted her gaze, looked into his eyes. "Without telling you…everything…"

Anthony leaned forward. "I've no other place to be, nothing more important. Take your time—we can sit by the hearth, if you wish?"

Edith nodded, took a handkerchief from her purse, and sat by him on the sofa. She stared into the fire. "You left me." She let the words hang between them, saw in her periphery Anthony visibly cringe. "I wrote a letter and…"

Anthony's attention remained rapt until she finished more than an hour later with Farmer Drewe and her daughter, Ava. Edith finally took a cup of tea as she waited in silence, her eyes drifting from the cup to him and back again. Still, the silence between them. The hiss and crackle of the fire, the clock's painful observance of time…

"Anthony?"

"Sorry, I'm just…thinking…"

"You're not…judging me? You don't think worse of me for having an ill—?"

Anthony gave her the sternest look. "No!"

Edith started, her tea nearly spilling, so shaken by the ferocity that erupted from him.

"I'm sorry. My God, Edith—I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you," he whispered, the contrast itself fascinating to her. When her mouth didn't close, he apologized again. "I'm sorry." She looked away from him, down again into the cup, and something in the defeated countenance pierced him. He touched her chin, coaxed her to face him, not caring that his eyes burned from the pricking of tears. "Edith, I don't want you to berate yourself or Ava in such a manner again, please. I want you, also, to be especially certain of this: I would never—could never—judge you, especially not after what I did…what I put you through. Nothing you could ever do would change my opinion of you." He stopped, afraid he'd say too much and frighten her. _ I always have and will always love you. _"Please, you must believe me."

Edith watched as he withdrew his hand, the warmth of his touch gone from her, both utterly aware of everything in the charged atmosphere. She set her tea aside.

"I don't know what you want, Edith. I couldn't pretend to know fully; but, I do know that, if at all possible, I want to be the one to give it to you…anything in my power."

The broken verse he spoke touched her and the handkerchief went once more to her eyes. "I'm not sure how to do it, but I do believe I want to be her mother—I want Ava—but no one hurt. I know they will be, that it's impossible after caring for her for so long—"

"A distant relative."

"What?"

"A distant relative has been located by your solicitor in London and you're going to escort the child to this relative; a legal document can be drawn up to show the transfer of guardianship, if you will, only…you, the mother, are the unnamed distant relative—none of which the Drewes, nor your family—until you're ready, of course—need to know. It's a story that will work both for you and for the Drewes to explain the sudden upheaval. A sum of money for the family to alleviate their…emotional disturbance and to compensate them for their excellent care of her."

Edith stared at him.

"The time? I know. It's of concern. We'll need to arrange a place to live elsewhere for you and Ava—"

"And you."

"If you wish," he whispered.

"Surely you expect us to…marry?"

"I think, given your title and reputation, the legal ramifications of sorts and financial considerations, that yes, marriage would be the most…plausible scenario."

The vision of a wedding… "I agree," Edith said. "A marriage of…" She couldn't say the word, the bitterness of _convenience_ rather than…

"We can meet in London and marry wherever you'd like to settle."

"My French is quite good." She tried to smile.

Anthony paled, though, the fear of returning seizing him. "France then?"

"It seems to be the place for writers, right now, yes." Sensing the change in him, Edith added, "Or…we  
can return to Switzerland—wherever you think best."

He tugged at the knee of his trousers, smoothed the fabric again. "We don't have to decide today. I will leave the decision entirely in your hands—whatever and wherever you wish, I will accommodate. With the time we'll need to situate everything, we'll have days to travel, hire a nanny, a maid for you, rent or purchase a home…we'll be away for some time…"

The magnitude of his plan exceeded anything she'd imagined in the small hours of the sleepless morning. "Anthony…what you're choosing to do—you're giving up your entire life—are you sure?"

"Marry you, provide you and your daughter with a safe and nurturing place to establish your true relationship without further pain, for you to write and work as you would like… Yes, Edith, I'm absolutely sure."

Edith heard the words, saw—was it _resolve_? She couldn't be sure… Something in his person that led her to trust him in this—something she'd not seen before and couldn't quite believe now...

"One thing you must consider is what to tell your family," he considered, interrupting her analysis.

"Well, to most of them, I was away learning French anyhow. Despite their rancor at my chosen career, I think writing on the continent makes sense, either as a journalist or novelist."

Anthony nodded. He hesitated, took a sip of tea, and set it down again on the end table. "Ava's…father? You've really heard nothing more?"

Edith turned back to the fire. "I don't really know. As I said, he went to Germany, but the last I heard he was accosted by a gang of some kind—I haven't been able to learn more…if he was just hospitalized or…worse."

"I see. Certainly, your family will have your forwarding address, so to speak. If there is word, you'll receive it; we'll make sure. And if he is well and returns—then, if you wish, a hasty divorce with a settlement so you…the three of you can be a family." The final syllables wrought a tender, familiar puncturing in his chest, yet he smiled reassuringly—a well-shrouded agony she couldn't possibly see.

Anthony's words surprised her, as had most of the afternoon's conversation. The only words she could find as she stared at him, "Thank you, Anthony."

The gentleman looked away quickly, her tone and expression too much for him, fearful his waiting tears might show. "Yes, well," he said, standing, walking to the window.

"I think I'm feeling…hungry now."

Anthony turned back towards her. "Thank God!" He smiled and laughed then. "Mrs. Brandon will be so relieved. You know how she is, her pride regarding her food—"

"She prepares it all with love," Edith said, without looking up at him, taking her place again at the lunch table.

"Yes…yes, she does," he murmured, in awe and confirmation. Anthony took his seat across from her and they ate the sandwiches and Edith's favorite scones mostly in silence, except for the guest's immense appreciation of the delicious food.

When they finished, the talk commenced once more of plans. Anthony would meet her in London in a week's time, after she'd obtained her daughter from Tim Drewe and Anthony had spoken with Locksley's manager and given extensive plans to see to regarding the long-term running of the estate, and, together with Anthony's staff, the relocation would begin…

As Edith stood by her car, readying to leave, Anthony held the door. "I feel as though this is some crazy whirlwind, a ridiculous and dangerous conjuring…"

"No, Edith. It may seem so, but it's quite real. I'll make all of the necessary arrangements—financial, legal, otherwise, and I'll begin tonight. If something comes up—if you change your mind about anything, any detail or… You've only to let me know, please. Stewart will keep you informed by post, as it were," he assured her, evoking a smile from her at the memory of his valet's stealth skills. "Are you all right?"

Edith searched his eyes, aiming to penetrate the veil of resolve, the reason to mistrust that she sensed had to be there. "Yes," she lied. The flaw, an unidentifiable, hidden fault she couldn't see—where was it? She glanced away quickly before the questions spilled from her lips: _Why? How can I trust you with this when you wouldn't… Do you love me? Will you really do this? Just for the sake of your own seeking of redemption?_. "Good afternoon, then."

"Good afternoon. Drive carefully," he pleaded, a slight and worried smile evident.

Edith tried to return the gesture, but only shut the door, her face blank… She could feel him watching her, knew he did until she was out of sight.

When he walked back inside, Stewart was seeing to setting the library back in order and Anthony observed the valet's work, but his mind was still with Edith.

"Everything all right, Sir?"

"I don't know, honestly. I've some financial business to see to, in order to afford this plan, but she still…"

"Sir?"

"I suppose it makes sense that…talk of a marriage after all this time would be more like—well, a business decision."

Stewart paused, put down the tray. "There was no talk of…the past? Your…love before?"

Anthony shook his head. "No, of course not. She's moved on—Ava's father, the editor; despite his circumstances, whatever they are…no, he still has her heart."

"Sir, your life is about to be completely turned 'round. Are you sure you want—"

"Stewart," Anthony admonished, "Would you really call what's been going on here for these past years _life_?"

"No, Sir. I wouldn't."

"Sorry for the harshness of tone."

Stewart's mouth quirked into a half-grin. "On the contrary, Sir, I admire your sudden…passion. I only hope that you and Lady Edith…can be happy in a marriage like this."

Anthony thought for a moment and bowed his head. "Like what? Convenience, of course? You know me, Stewart: my happiness doesn't matter. It never did…"

"Yes, but perhaps now—"

"I don't want to think of it, Stewart, please." Anthony moved towards the window, gazed out towards the fields. "Torturous to think of all that _could _or _should _have been. No, we're moving on and I'm simply giving her what she needs…whatever it takes for her to have the life she requires and making sure her daughter is the center of that life."

Stewart recognized his cue and picked up the tray again. "I'll leave you then, Sir. If you need anything, just ring."

Anthony's eyes followed the starling that lighted on the nearest tree, watched as it fussed in its nest. The image of Edith's look before she drove away materialized, began to haunt him as he thought through all they'd discussed…

* * *

"Ludicrous…" Edith muttered. "Incredible. No, I can't do this—I can't. She belongs with them and I certainly don't belong with…_him_…" Now, in the garage at Downton, she lingered inside the parked car, completely unnoticed, debating with herself. "But you're not doing this to be with _him_," she reasoned. "You can shut him out; he'll let you, after all, given that he's Anthony Strallan and is only doing this…What? For his own satisfaction? Forgiveness? His own conscience? The fact that I _need _him and his _resources_? I don't. Won't for long. My God…I give up. And you and Ava and your writing and every dream you've ever had outside of this _home_ is there…in front of you…" Edith brushed away yet another tear, anger and misgivings and hurt fermenting all over again from the depths of the well inside. "If he gives it, if I let him have me—my life—then he can take it all away…just like before."

Edith snatched her purse and stepped out of the car, walked just outside the garage along the drive, and suddenly stood still, listening, studying the estate, an odd and invisible presence arresting her in her place; her eyes scoured the entirety of the property in view: everything _owned_ and managed and in its place. Angling her neck, Edith scanned the sky above: open, endless, free. _I can't give him everything. Not again. Protect myself and my daughter, but even by granting him this chance, this role as savior he's choosing to assume, I will have control and make the decisions and, if he doesn't agree, then Ava and I will—after a time—have the money we need and we can make it alone…or Michael… _No, she couldn't let herself think of him, couldn't acknowledge the truth she felt: Michael was dead. This was about Anthony, about a marriage she was now planning, about a life she couldn't relinquish to a man she'd once trusted, the man who'd first held her heart before shattering it and her life. _Never can I allow him in, allow him my trust, nor anything else... Never… _Edith's lips barely moved, her eyes still examining the infinite gray above,"I don't love you. And won't—not again. You can't expect me to. You're giving me it all of your own will, asking for nothing…perhaps I've dealt with the devil? Only this time my eyes are wide, Anthony…and I'm not naïve or stupid or blind like before…I'll take your plan—this risk—and your name, if you go through with it, but I'm not and can never be, will never be..._yours_…"


	8. Chapter 8

_As always, thank you for your very kind reviews and appreciation of this story! I do hope you enjoy reading this chapter...thank you again._

* * *

Anthony sold investments, rearranged the remaining holdings to suffice while he lived abroad, wrote up extensive plans, and then met with several of his tenant farmers, the entire staff, and Locksley's estate manager. He'd done this before, after all, though with far more haste; however, this time, he wasn't fleeing Yorkshire alone.

In an effort to reconstruct trust—a process Anthony knew would take time—he carefully kept Edith abreast of all of his progress and decisions. Her routine drives synchronized with Stewart's walks made the news a simple exchange in those days before they would see one another again in London.

_March 6, 1924_

_Lady Edith—_

_I leave for London tomorrow. There are a series of engagements I'm afraid I can't avoid entirely, and my attention and presence is duly required. Of course, my main priority is to prepare and make financial, legal, and travel arrangements for us…_

_If France is your choice, and, judging from your passion at luncheon, it is, then I shall make inquiries regarding a residence there—anything to make the transition easier… _

_I pray you and Ava are well…_

* * *

Edith arrived at Tim Drewe's tenant farm unannounced two days after she met with Anthony.

"He's not here, milady," Mrs. Drewe explained. "He's working just outside there—" She pointed towards the outbuilding and Edith stole a glance behind her to see Ava, the nearly nine-month-old child eyeing her from behind the dining table. "Milady?"

"So sorry," Edith said, turning to follow the woman's gesturing hand. "I see. Yes, I'll find him out there then."

"Is everything all right, milady? Nothing wrong with the farm?"

Edith shook her head. "No, no, not at all. I'll just be a moment."

"Of course."

Edith felt the woman's eyes on her as she walked, careful to avoid the rain puddles and mud, towards where Drewe was working on the harvester just outside the small shed. When she glanced back, however, the door stood closed.

Within a few meters of him, she called, "Pardon me, Mr. Drewe?"

The young farmer glanced around to see Edith on the other side of the machine. He smiled, wiped his brow. "Morning, milady."

"Morning." Edith recalled her prepared words from the night prior and looked down, studying the spring and wheel, her courage diminishing as she sensed him interpreting her silence.

He stood and then walked around to her side, his attention on the building behind her, a pretense of surveying the construction as his boots trod the sodden ground. "Milady? Is there some way I can help you? A way to make this easier?"

Edith blessed him in that moment for his sensitivity and insight. "There's no way to make this easy—for any of us, I'm afraid. I'm here with…some news."

"You're here for Ava." A statement and not a question, and she knew that he knew.

"Yes," Edith said. Though they both knew the story to come a lie, Edith told it anyway, for they both knew he'd need the facts to convince his wife and, later, when the early, quiet hours of morning were more than he could bear, he repeated them to himself.

Edith walked with him into the house and, with Mrs. Drewe cuddling Ava, Edith, beginning a series of events in what she hoped would heal her own heart, broke both of theirs. Arrangements were made for Edith to return at the end of the week and leave with Ava.

* * *

"Mama?"

Cora looked up from her letter writing. "Yes, darling?"

"I need to talk with you."

"Of course. Sit down. Tea?"

"No, thank you."

"You look worried, dear, what is it?" Cora set the work aside.

Edith took the chair across from her mother. With her mother's smile gleaming in expectation, Edith stalled, and then she glanced away only able to reflect a brief, appeasing semblance of one in her own expression. "I've decided to…take a position…in France. I'll be away for some time…"

Edith felt obligated to attend the family dinner that night after the conversation with her mother. Facing the ire of most everyone proved as uncomfortable as she'd imagined it.

Robert began the interrogation before Carson had the first dish in front of them. "Why? You can write here—or in London if you must, but France?"

"I agree. There's no reason for this," Violet chimed.

Cora, gentle and tactful, intervened. "I'm sure Edith knows what's best for her career. We can visit her there and she can come home any time, but if this is the place she needs to be—"

"But she's going by herself, Cora. You can't be serious about her moving on her own!"

"Robert, she's already found employment there from what she told me. Of course there are people there to see to her initial settling in and all."

"I agree," Tom added. "Edith's a sharp woman and a fresh start might be the best thing." The smile he gave Edith offered some comfort, though she found herself wishing she didn't have to endure this alone. Edith's self-confidence diminished in the midst of her family. Throughout her life, it seemed to Edith, important discussions, always talks of her plans or changes she wished to make, riled and brought upset rather than praise. How could she feel confident?

"I agree with Mama and Tom," Mary echoed. The table went silent. An agreement between these two sisters?

Edith's cheeks flushed, her surprise obvious, but she said nothing.

"You're a grown woman," Mary said in Edith's direction before turning back to Robert. "She's made up her mind. Can we move on now? The latest meeting regarding—"

"No, we can't," Violet said. "Edith, dear, what are the actual plans, if indeed there are any? London went terribly for you, so you think France will somehow be better with this so-called _career_?"

"I'll return to London for a couple of days to set up travel plans and tidy up at The Sketch offices and Michael's property—staying at his flat to make sure all is organized before I decide what to do with it—and then I'll go on to France."

"Why can't you stay with Rosamund?" Robert beat his mother to it.

"I've no wish to bother her again, though I will be by to see her before leaving—at least once or twice. But Michael left his property to me, and I need take responsibility for it and make sure it's taken care of. I've already sent inquiries regarding a residence in France, and will leave soon after settling everything in London," Edith said, knew she had Anthony to thank for that truth.

"See?" Cora smiled. "I think she's planned everything quite nicely and I'm sure she'll keep us informed if there's anything new. Robert, we can visit as soon as she's settled—I'd love to take a trip…Paris…" Cora's charm worked wonders and Robert's attention momentarily followed his wife's willing suspension of the current discord.

Violet studied her granddaughter and Edith felt the intensity of the stare. In those moments, Edith could imagine the letters and meetings with Anthony, the visit to the Drewes and Ava, and she simply _knew _her grandmother would read her as easily as a morning post and, yet…no other questions arose. Violet's focus resettled on Cora.

"Cora, about the ladies' meeting next week…"

* * *

_Anthony,_

_I've spoken with Tim Drewe and the arrangements have been made… They're heartbroken at the news, of course…_

_Dinner this evening explaining my sudden relocation went…rather like the Inquisition, I'm afraid…Mama is all for it and Mary, surprisingly, and Tom, too, proved staunch allies… When all of this does come to light—my lies and the conspiracy of sorts we've concocted, consider yourself warned of my father's wrath, though I pray that's too strong a word and he will have calmed by then…_

_Dear Lady Edith,_

_I'm very sorry for the Drewes and their pain; moreover, I'm grateful for their understanding and I would urge you to stay positive and focused on the end result of you being reunited with your beautiful daughter…_

_Your family's reaction—I only wish I'd been able to be there so you would not have to endure such questions on your own… Please know this time will have been the last time you will ever have to face them alone. I've no doubt your father will be angered when he learns of the truth; however, and I hope this comforts you though I fear you will only see them as empty words: I will defend you and Ava and honor you no matter what…and I think peace will eventually win out amongst all of us…_

_Anthony,_

_The day after tomorrow, I will arrive at the Drewes early and Tim Drewe will accompany me to the station…_

_I need directions to your townhouse, of course, in order to meet you…_

_Dear Lady Edith,_

_Stewart can accompany you and Ava here; I would feel better if he was nearby during your travels with Ava—is that all right? No one, save you, will even know of his presence, I assure you…_

_I've taken the liberty of lining up a few interviews for you for a ladies' maid and also a nurse/nanny for Ava. I trust you will want final approval, so they will return when you arrive…_

_The nursery and your room are ready and I pray they, too, will meet your approval…and Ava's, too…_

_All is going well here. James Clary, my solicitor, has drawn up a number of papers to ensure…_

* * *

On that chill, gray morning, there were no words. None were needed. The humble home of the Drewes cleared of the child's possessions and Ava, wrapped in her coat, with her beloved doll under her arm and fingers in her mouth, showed no sign of upset. She sat in Edith's arms during the drive to the station, but kept hold of one of Tim's large, calloused fingers, too. Mrs. Drewe couldn't stand the goodbye and so stayed at home. Once at the station, the attendant helped with the baggage and Tim Drewe kissed Ava's cheek once more and calmed the child's growing anxiety and few tears before quickly walking away. Then, Edith and Ava were left alone to board and settle in their car. Within minutes, the excitement of the morning caught up with the tiny girl and the gentle rock of the train helped her slip into sleep.

Edith never saw Stewart; he remained in the servant's car after having watched Edith and Ava board. When they arrived in London, however, Stewart was there with the valises and he helped the two ladies off the train and into the nearest taxi car.

Anthony's townhouse didn't surprise Edith at all—not at first: clean and well-ordered, noticeable warmth to the residence that felt alien and familiar to her at once. Locksley and now this place, too, brought the same stirrings inside, feelings she couldn't afford to allow to the surface.

Clara and Mrs. Brandon greeted them warmly, giddy at the appearance of the little girl, and eagerly showed Edith the converted nursery that they hoped would work well and meet their needs until they departed for the continent. Bright, with yellows and pinks in the drapery and walls, as well as a beautifully ornate crib for the tiny girl and a set of books, of course, on a tiny shelf Edith knew he must have had crafted for a child's reach. Edith set Ava onto the plush rug that covered the entire floor and she immediately toddled to reach the collection of bindings facing her from the shelf. Edith moved towards the crib and reached inside, found the linens softer than she thought possible. She looked then to the rocking chair by the window and a small table set up just beside it.

"Did you two do this?" Edith asked, turning to the two women watching Ava with delight.

Clara looked to Mrs. Brandon and the older cook gave a polite smile before it disappeared. Soberly, seeing the glistening in Lady Edith's eyes, she replied, "No, milady. Sir Anthony made sure of all of this, directed the lady consultant from the store quite precisely, and he told us to take note if you required anything else, of course."

Edith's attention returned to the crib, her face angled away from them. "Where is he—Sir Anthony?"

Stewart heard the question as he entered from the corridor. "He sends his apologies, milady. He had several business appointments this morning. He's instructed us to make sure you have everything you need—can I get you anything? Luncheon or tea or—"

"Yes, luncheon would be nice. I made sure Ava had a bit of food on the train, but I was too…enthralled to eat."

"I understand, milady," Mrs. Brandon assured her. "I'll have a tray up for you—"

"Actually, Mrs. Brandon, if Clara doesn't mind staying with Ava while I eat, I'd like to eat in the…library?"

Clara smiled. "Of course, I can stay with this precious girl, milady."

"We'll have your lunch in just a few minutes, milady." Stewart held a hand out. "This way to your room then."

Stewart led her just down from Ava's room and opened the second door. "If this doesn't work, Sir Anthony will do what—"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Edith said, her voice quiet. "We'll only be here a few days at the most." She walked past Stewart into the deceptively large room: queen bed with a most handsome night table and lamp beside it, custom bookshelves already filled. She stepped closer to the shelves by the window and saw some rather familiar titles. He knew. "I don't suppose Sir Anthony planned all of this for me, just as he did Ava's room?"

Stewart met her gaze, but didn't reply.

"Leave me alone, please."

"Of course, milady. I'll let you know when your lunch is ready in the library."

Edith waited for the door to close and then sat on the dark red duvet of the bed surveying her room…trying to reconcile all she felt with what she saw and knew now, all the plans he'd made for them—and she wept.

As at Locksley, Anthony's library in the townhome contained everything the gentleman loved: an immense hearth, books from floor to ceiling on dark, mahogany shelves, a standing globe, a chess set, a large sofa, two chairs, all of which were barely-worn—Edith surmised that guests here and at Locksley were rare, and, in contrast, a large, well-used and neatly organized desk, with papers and pens ordered perfectly in place and two small picture frames adorning it. Edith perused the room, ran her fingers along the books, and ate in silence by the hearth, glancing occasionally out the almost-bay-sized windows that faced the outside and the shaded street. As she ate and sipped her tea afterwards, she considered the right way to approach him and thank him without giving, without losing herself a little at a time to his generosity. Edith steeled herself yet again, as she had each time she'd read his letters, each time she thought of him over the past week, and felt the renewed cold, the hurt and distrust she must remind herself of in those solitary moments.

Edith spent the afternoon in the library and then up in Ava's room, acquainting herself with her daughter and helping the petite child adjust to new surroundings. When she believed she heard doors open and close down the corridor, she thought nothing of it beyond the staff and simply stayed in the room cuddling and talking with Ava. The sounds of delighted squeals charmed Edith to no end and, on occasion, Ava's crying did as well. For even those times when the little girl struggled to reach or understand or didn't get exactly what she wanted when she wanted it, Edith reminded herself how privileged she was to be in the child's presence…to be a mother…

Anthony arrived late in the afternoon for only a few minutes to change before the dinner and, though he heard the interactions as he walked down the corridor and paused just by the nursery door, he chose not to interrupt. Silent, he stood there for several moments. Hearing Ava's laughter, the unmistakable joy of a child, caused his eyes to sting and when Edith replied in kind with her own amused giggle, the gentleman thought his heart might burst then and there…before forcing himself to depart again for the final evening appointment.

Edith fed Ava dinner with Clara and Mrs. Brandon watching, once more, with utter glee at the child's every movement and expression. Bath time was an adventure as well as all three women found themselves as wet as the child. In new pajamas and a new place, Ava acclimated quite well, with soothing sounds and a couple of lullabies and the sweet rhythm and warmth of Edith rocking her…she was asleep in a short time. Edith stayed for a while though. Peaceful sleep for the daughter she'd dreamt of so often and Edith knew she only had one person to thank for the sight, for the feeling now warming her.

Anthony's whereabouts a mystery, Edith took to the library again hoping to meet him when he arrived home, but sleep soon overtook her as well and the hours drifted by.

Anthony arrived home after eleven, much to his and Stewart's surprise—but the General had been in a rare, sentimental mood, and so departing became a challenge. The two men disposed of their overcoats and Stewart opened the library door to pour a brandy for Anthony and himself, but immediately saw a lamp still on and Lady Edith Crawley sitting up on the sofa, stretching, and doing her best to conceal her recently-awakened slumber in front of the dying fire.

"Lady Edith? May I get you anything?"

Anthony peered in the door and saw her, too, walked just inside to greet her.

"No, no. I'm fine. I only wished to—oh my God—" The sight of Anthony in full service dress dawned on her and she stared, utterly amazed. The red jacket adorned with medals of various sizes and ribbons, his black sling a heart-wrenching reminder of his sacrifices, too, and then she looked to his face, a look of concern there as he watched her. His eyes and just slightly wind-blown, blond hair…

"Lady Edith?" Anthony, fearful something was wrong, followed her stare and looked at his attire and realized she'd never seen him in uniform. His neck and face revealed the fierce blush of embarrassment, the heat making him uncomfortable as he reached to the collar to tug at it, the anxiety apparent.

"Yes," she said, catching herself, lifting her eyes to meet his. "I'm sorry. I just—I just wanted to thank you for the nursery…and…and my room."

"It was nothing." He gave a slight, sheepish smile.

Edith didn't return the smile though. She only narrowed her eyes, nodded to both Anthony and Stewart. "Thank you then. Good night."

Anthony barely managed a good night in reply as she brushed past him and up the stairs. He walked and stood in the corridor for a moment watching her ascend, struggling to find something else to say to her about the coming days and their plans before failing, letting his gaze fall to the floor in defeat…missing her take the risk, turning back to see him as she stood at the top of the stairs in the darkness. One long, last look at him standing in profile, in his uniform, and Edith couldn't breathe, the reality of living in his home, the intimacy of it, the scent of him still with her as she'd swept past… _Husband_…the word, the idea of it closing in on her, resonating deeper than she wished, before she shut her eyes and mind to it, prayed in vain for the ability of her heart to withstand it for as long as she needed, for her own sake and for Ava's…


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Thank you, always, for reading and sharing your thoughts with me. I do love knowing what you think and I'm really enjoying all of the stories in the fandom! What a terrific community :) Hope you enjoy this latest bit..._

* * *

Anthony heard her steps in the corridor, anxious to meet her after last night's awkward encounter. She lived in his home now, the fact of it still a shock, and an attempt at an early breakfast together seemed more pleasant than another surprise meeting. He readied the set of papers by his coffee at his desk and stood, walked to the door with them in hand before he heard the front door of his town home open and shut without a word. Moving quickly, Anthony stood at the edge then of the window of his library and peered from the curtain to see Edith with her head down hurrying along the walk. Stewart opened the door.

"Sir, may I bring you anything?"

"She left?"

"Yes, Sir. Just now."

"Did she say where she was going?"

Stewart shook his head. "She didn't say a word, Sir."

Anthony stared back out the window, silent, the file in hand awaiting Edith.

* * *

Edith turned the key in the door and took a breath. Michael's flat: musty, vacant, and unkempt over the past months. All the valuables and papers removed much earlier, before Switzerland, Edith simply walked through the rooms and absorbed the emptiness. No decisions were made while she was expecting their child and waiting for his return, her life at once full and barren in his absence. When she walked into the bedroom, she shut her eyes_…_Michael's scent, his arms around her, the kisses she could barely remember now…

_ "Edith, if something happens—"_

_"Shhh…not now."_

_"I love you, darling. Soon, just a bit longer and we'll marry, I promise you. I promise. I'll be back, just wait for me—"_

_"Of course, I promise. Love me—please? Let's—"_

Edith shuddered. She opened her eyes, her gaze falling on the small framed photograph Michael kept of her on his night stand when the staff dismissed for the night—a haunting reminder of his ultimate dismissal of them before his move to Germany. Flapper gown and demure, earl's daughter's smile peering into the camera, seeing herself at the juncture of mistress and lady with Michael just outside the frame smiling down at her, the time and space of the image reflecting the perilous edge of propriety at which she stood in that moment staring back at her from behind the glass. She walked the few steps, sat on the bed, and held the picture, and then—for reasons unknown to her—a different image flashed: _Anthony_. _Last night. _The thought of him intruded, even in the realms of the world she'd created beyond him, the new life that set her free and imprisoned her. The frame clattered to the floor. Edith started. Unable to fathom the sudden chill and trembling, she took a breath and picked up the now-cracked glass and frame, and realized tears slipped down her face. For Michael? Ava? For everyone.

* * *

When she returned to Anthony's town home, she heard laughter in the dining room as breakfast was cleared. She opened the door and saw her daughter in a light pink dress with white lace at the hem sitting on Anthony's knee. Edith's mouth opened and, after a long pause, closed again.

He stammered. "Mrs. Brandon and Clara were clearing the breakfast dishes…for only a moment…and Lady Ava and I were—"

The title. Edith watched as Ava grinned up at the gentleman, a tiny hand at his smooth cheek and patting it lightly before petting and tugging at the sling that crossed his chest. Neither spoke, both attentive instead to the child's coos and behavior. At nearly nine months, Ava put together sounds, of course, and some attempts at words, but curiosity and touch dominated her waking hours. Sitting on Anthony's left leg, the child peered into the open blackness of the material, touched his sleeved, unmoving arm…then, with both of hers, explored his hand with studious focus. Edith froze, powerless to stop her daughter. Ava, wide-eyed and smiling, held his large middle and ring finger and squeezed, looked up to Anthony for approval, for mutual affection and love. Not since his engagement to Edith years ago had he so desperately wished he could feel touch in that limb, in those dead appendages.

Edith felt the sting in her own eyes, saw the tears in Anthony's, even as he smiled down at Ava—the dark-bright ones questioning and accepting the blue. As quickly as it occurred, the warmth evaporated, replaced by the cold as Edith reached and drew Ava into her arms.

"I'm sorry I left without notice. I had to make arrangements for Michael's estate, which took longer than I thought given that there's no certification or proof of death. But…I'm back now."

"Of course. If I can help you with that—"

"No, no—it's all arranged."

"Lady Ava has already eaten. Would you like some breakfast? I'm sure Mrs. Br—"

"Upstairs, please. We'll be in the nursery."

"I need to speak with you regarding some of the legal papers? They'll require your reading and signature."

Edith only looked at Ava, never responding to Anthony, the invisible rampart refortified and staunchly in place, patched and invulnerable once more.

"Later." Edith began to walk out and held Ava's gaze and attention, saying again over her shoulder, "Later, I'll see them. Just leave them there."

Upstairs, Edith sat on the floor with her daughter, watched as Ava toddled back and forth, unsteady, dug into the collection of small toys and books within her reach. Ava snatched a book from the shelf and plopped into Edith's lap, looked to her mama and waited. Edith rested her chin in her daughter's hair.

"I hope you weren't disappointed, sweetheart. He can't feel anything, not with that arm, not for years." Edith kissed Ava's crown. "But I think he cares for you. I just can't let him too close, all right? He's helping us, yes, but we can't—" Ava slapped the book, impatient. Edith smiled, then found herself lost as the memory came to her, summoned by her daughter's gesture, her hands holding Anthony's…

_April, 1920_

_"May I?"_

_"You may do anything you wish, sweet one, though I don't know why you wish to try."_

_"Because I want to know—to see if you can."_

_"I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."_

_"Never—not with you. It will only help me understand better, to be a part of you."_

_In those rare minutes, alone in the orchard, Anthony—though anxious beyond words—allowed his fiancé to remove his sling and, together, they slid his tweed coat from him. Anthony tensed at the intimacy, the perceived breaking of society's rules, but Edith coaxed him, with her soft touch and the mere shadow of her hand over his brow and eyes to urge them shut and she took his hand in hers and opened his palm to the sky. _

_"Can you feel this?" One finger traced the lines of his palm, her eyes focused on his face, his closed eyes and the breeze rustling his hair and collar just slightly._

_"I don't feel anything, no."_

_Edith's fingers undid the button of his cuff, pushed the sleeve further up his arm, but Anthony didn't move. Her eyes glanced again at his serene expression, docile and unaware of her, unable to feel her touch at all. She held his hand with one of hers and then smoothed his forearm beneath the sleeve, a caress of the soft skin, stroking all the way to his elbow and back again. "This? Anything?"_

_For a moment, Anthony's eyes flinched as though he might open them, but they remained sealed with his dark lashes. He shook his head._

_Daring for a moment, a hint of only a fantasy she dreamt soon-to-be-fulfilled, Edith surveyed their surroundings, the trees and Locksley's estate protecting them, and one last glimpse at Anthony—she placed his hand at her lips, and, when he didn't move, still painfully unaware, she then moved it further down to the beat of her heart at her breast and the softness of her sweater between the folds of her coat. Edith kept silent too long. Anthony's eyes flashed open, confused and then shocked at the proximity of his hand on her body._

_"Edith?"_

_Knowing she'd frightened him, she sought to explain the bold act and whispered, "It's just that you have my heart. I'll be your wife and I just…desire you…your touch." The bolstered courage of total adoration and their wedding, their very lives finally in sight ahead of them, moved her into his lap._

_"Sweet—"_

_Edith didn't give him the chance to say more. Anthony felt her lips press his own, his imaginings in that moment blissfully unrestrained in his own mind, his status as a gentleman questioned only by his own guilty conscience as Edith's hands held his tighter against her breast still and the other drifted to the back of his neck, curled into his hair, the heavenly gasp of breath as she released a soft moan…_

Anthony swallowed another brandy, pursed his lips and grimaced as he chased the memory away, the sear of the alcohol accomplishing nothing. Edith's touch. The kiss that followed when he caught her holding his hand against her heart. "Never again," he whispered.

"Sir?"

"Hmm? Nothing. Nothing at all, Stewart. Just the past reminding me of my foolishness. I'm going for a walk. I need some air. If Lady Edith comes down, please make sure she receives the file of papers from Mr. Clary. If she has questions, we'll address them before our departure for France, which will need to be settled quite soon."

"Of course, Sir. I'll let her know when she comes down."

* * *

Ava, somewhat fussy and still adapting to her new environment and family, lay down for a morning nap, allowing Edith to return downstairs to the sheaf of papers Anthony left for her.

"May I get you anything, milady?" Stewart asked.

"No, thank you, Stewart." She pointed to the bundle. "Sir Anthony wanted me to look at these, correct?"

"Yes, milady. They were prepared by Mr. Clary, his solicitor."

"I'll use this quiet time and review them, then, thank you. Actually, tea would be nice."

"Very good, milady."

Edith opened the file, a rather thick stack of legal print that initially intimidated her, a pen in hand for her signature as needed. Stewart brought tea and departed again, unnoticed. Edith took her teacup and sipped, set it down again, repeating the gesture throughout the next hour. As she read, Edith's eyes grew wider, her breathing shallower, until she closed it up in disbelief.

"Stewart?"

The valet appeared in the doorway. "Yes, milady?"

"Where is he?"

"He took a walk, milady."

"When is he due back?"

Stewart measured his reply. "I'm not sure, milady. Some take quite a while and others not so long."

Edith stood, abrupt and sharp, a finger pointing towards the file. "Why did he do this?"

"I'm not sure what you mean—"

"Aren't you? You know him better than anyone. He's giving up everything—for me—for Ava. Does he really think this will work? He can't be serious. These must be false…or there must be an explanation, so what is it? Why is he doing this?"

"Milady, he only wants you to have everything, I promise. He's genuine. He's sorry for what he did—"

"I don't want his pity in the form of this type of legal settlement!"

"It's not pity."

"Then redemption?"

"He wants you and Lady Ava to be well taken care of is all."

Edith felt the slipping, the thrust of gravity shifting her from what she thought she knew and she grasped the back of the chair in front of her for balance. "Is he ill? Is something going on? Are we truly going to be the only ones inheriting this…this incredibly large estate—everything?"

"If that's what Sir Anthony has arranged, then that's what Mr. Clary drew up for you, milady, in those papers. Yes."

"Even if we don't…stay? If this isn't a real marriage? If I'm not a real wife? Stewart, this isn't right, surely?" Edith, shoulders back and body rigid with conviction, glared at Anthony's man, knew she failed in hiding the incredulous look, knew he'd heard the breaking lilt of her voice. "I can't do this. I can't go through—"

"Lady Edith, he only wants you to be happy. He'll do anything for you and your daughter."

Edith shook her head, choosing not to hear the words. "No, I can't—"

A short cry erupted upstairs and Edith rushed from the room. Within minutes, a bag on one shoulder and Ava in her arms, Edith swept past Stewart and out the door.

* * *

Rosamund Painswick observed the child on her drawing room rug. "She looks much like you, my dear."

"You think so?" Edith asked. She sat on the floor near where Ava played with a few small toys Edith brought.

"It's no wonder Anthony Strallan recognized her."

Edith's face flushed at the chastisement, remembered quite well her aunt's fierce disapproval at even the mention of bringing her daughter to England to be reared nearby.

"Of course, it's too late now. What are your plans?"

Edith sighed, swept a curl from Ava's forehead. "We're to marry…"

Rosamund leaned forward from where she sat in her chair, one hand beneath her chin. "I assume you're having second thoughts. Is that why you're here in such a rush, without warning or notice? You're running from him?"

"He surprised me. He left papers from his solicitor, wanted me to read over them to make sure they met my approval."

"And did they?"

Edith gazed at the rug, her finger tracing a pattern. "He's leaving me everything."

"Well, he would be your husband and Ava his child—adopted child and…you might have more children, an heir, perhaps—"

"This isn't going to be a real marriage."

"Then what, Edith? You think Michael's coming back? I think we both know the truth of that, dear. Anthony Strallan left you once, so you think he'll do it again? You don't trust him?"

Edith shook her head. "No, I don't think he'll do it again and yes, I don't fully trust him. I can't…afford to let myself…"

"Have a real marriage to a man who loves you?"

When Edith didn't respond, Rosamund waited, read her look. Edith avoided her though, reached for the bag, coaxed Ava to her with a tiny snack of cake and milk brought by Rosamund's maid earlier.

"He loves you and you know it, but you don't think you love him—and you're looking for a way out for you and Ava."

Edith turned, her glistening eyes meeting Rosamund's analytic stare.

"Oh, Edith."

"If I marry him, I am putting both of us at his mercy."

"If he marries you, then he's giving you everything, and he's completely at your mercy—where you want him, isn't he? You're using this as an excuse to protect yourself, darling, for which I don't blame you. Even if you marry him, you're going to keep him at arm's length forever? After the way you felt about him before, I think not."

Edith steeled herself, eyes narrowing with resolve. "Even farther than arm's length. He won't hurt us, certainly not my daughter. I will not—cannot allow it. We're together and on our own and that's how we will remain."

Rosamund leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving her niece who quickly turned back to Ava still happily engaged in eating, while simultaneously examining the plush bear from her room at Anthony's. "I know it hasn't been long and he can't possibly know her or you all that well given the time that's passed, but…how does he treat her?"

Edith swallowed, fought the constriction slowly enveloping her chest, her neck, her throat. "I can't fully fathom it, but he uses her title. This morning, when I returned from Michael's, he was holding her while the maid took care of cleaning up breakfast and…Anthony held her on his knee and she was holding his damaged hand and watching him so intently and, despite knowing the truth, knowing about Michael and me and all of it, knowing she's not to blame for any of it and in his eyes, I suppose, she's perfect—I saw it all this morning and—and he kept using her title—Lady Ava." The words hung, draped beautifully in the air with Edith's tearful confession—Anthony's brilliant character exhibited by the one statement of fact.

Rosamund blinked for a long moment at the acknowledgement before her fire-green eyes looked deeply into Edith's. "Of course he does…she's your daughter." She paused and leaned down again, allowed Edith to set the bottle nearby and away from the now-satisfied child, and took Edith's hand. "My advice, darling: let him save you both, Edith. Protect yourself, but let Anthony Strallan do this—if he means to sacrifice himself for you two, then let him help you. And if, perhaps, love comes from—"

Edith's jaw tightened. "It won't. But thank you, thank you very much, Aunt Rosamund."

Rosamund saw the stubborn Crawley clench and resigned herself. "You are going to let your parents know when you marry and settle together in France?"

Edith turned back to Ava, grazed the child's soft cheek with her finger. "Of course. As ugly as that may possibly turn out to be, yes, we will write them and they will know what we've done and who their granddaughter is. They'll know all of it."

"Give Anthony plenty of notice so he knows to expect your father's reaction." The two women shared knowing looks.

The two women finished visiting and, as Edith kissed her aunt, Rosamund tried one final time. "Edith, if he loves you and treats you and Ava well, give him a chance. Give loving him a chance—please—for your own sake, as well as hers."

"I appreciate your being my confidant and the advice, Aunt Rosamund, I really do. Please, though, don't hold out hope. I'm doing this for Ava, not me, and certainly not Anthony and his…noble motives or redemption or something. I do promise to write soon, all right?" With that, Rosamund kissed Edith and Ava and they were gone…

* * *

Anthony arrived back at luncheon to a dark town house, a low fire in the library, but no one else present.

"Stewart?" he called down the corridor.

The valet walked to meet him, helped him with his coat. "Yes, Sir?"

"Is everything all right? Is Lady Edith here?" Anthony glanced and walked further to the dining area and saw the papers shut on the table. "Did she read them? It's terribly quiet," Anthony said, an uneasy smile on his face.

"She left with Lady Ava, Sir, and carried a bag with her."

Fear, exponentially exploded by the early morning episode—the image of Ava's eyes looking into his and her hands on his—all of it fading and sinking to the furthest abyss of memory as the thread snapped and panic set in. "What? Did something happen? Was she all right? Lady Ava wasn't ill?"

Stewart took a deep breath. "She read the file, Sir, and became upset—"

"I don't understand…"

Just then, the door opened and Edith appeared with Ava, quietly placing the bag on the floor and she heard the remnant echo of Anthony's frantic voice.

"But she can't be upset. I've given her everything—whether I'm here or not, she'll have everything, Stewart. I don't understand. She and Lady Ava deserve everything—she'll be our daughter, after all, and I can't take a chance—"

"Sir, please sit. Calm down. I'm sure—"

Edith steadied herself in the hall, leaned with one hand, and listened closely for another moment—her mind still arrested on Anthony's words: our daughter. Already, Rosamund's voice resonated…marriage to him on the fast-approaching horizon, the convenient merging and resulting family that would come of it legally if she signed those papers, if she said the vows and went through with it, and, according to the papers, nothing else of a real marriage mattered—no consummation, no love, nothing she could do to forfeit the settlements he'd arranged. _He wants this, then I'll submit for a while. Just a while,_ she reminded herself. _Let him shelter us for a while. Just a short while and then we'll be free._

Casually, her insides now calmer, Edith walked down the hall. "Hello." She looked through the doorway, entered after realizing she wasn't intruding but welcome there, and she held Ava's slender, petite hand in her own. "I'm sorry—again—for leaving. We went by Aunt Rosamund's for a bit of a visit and tea." Edith smiled at Ava. "Didn't we, sweetheart?"

At the very sight of her, Anthony felt his heart resume its rhythm again. "I was worried," he confessed. "I thought something was terribly wrong."

"No, no. I will sign what I can now and, later, after we marry—which should be sooner rather than later, given our timeline—I'll sign the rest as your legal wife. Is that all right?"

Anthony recognized the business-like tone, the one he guessed she must use in the offices at The Sketch, and he nodded. "Yes, we can marry in Paris, if you like, as soon as we arrive. The notice came on the small house just to the north of the city. They can have it ready within a week or so. We can stay here or in Paris, whichever—"

"I'd like to leave as soon as we can and marry and begin the charade, so to speak." Edith inwardly admonished herself for the word—_charade_. After all he'd done, all he was demonstrating he would do, and she diminished it and deflected its importance with a slight like that.

Anthony winced in a way that only Stewart caught, the gentleman utterly practiced and perfect in the façade of compliments and affronts. "Two days' time then for leaving?"

"Yes, I think we can manage that."

"Very good. I'll send the deposit tomorrow to confirm our lease or purchase at the residence, as well as make arrangements in Paris for rooms." A silence ensued, until Anthony glanced from one to the other and then he politely inquired, "I don't suppose after tea and cakes that you're hungry for a bit of luncheon then?"

Lady Ava Crawley offered a smile, large brown eyes peering up at him from behind long auburn lashes and, looking to Edith and down again at the small angelic child, Anthony smiled, too. Edith didn't smile, only suffered the beginnings of a dangerous feeling of solid, sacred earth crumbling—earth she felt certain she'd constructed without fallibility or weakness—failing beneath her now without a known or logical cause, and the contrasting certainty of her inability to escape…


End file.
